


Mixed Feelings Omakes

by Kithri



Series: Mixed Feelings [5]
Category: Worm - Wildbow
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-10-23
Updated: 2018-06-23
Packaged: 2018-08-24 07:05:43
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 22
Words: 59,147
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8362273
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Kithri/pseuds/Kithri
Summary: Omakes and deleted scenes for Mixed Feelings





	1. In which Dennis is his usual tactful and diplomatic self (Dean, not quite so much)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A canonical omake written by [Tamoline](http://archiveofourown.org/users/tamoline), set between 2.01 and 2.02.

Someone’s saying something to Dennis, but, seriously, it isn’t as important as keeping an eye out for the next wave of enemies. They should be triggering in five… four… three… two…  
  
Someone moves in front of the TV, cutting off his view, the sound of completely unrealistic gunfire heralding his end. He glances up in annoyance. Dean.  
  
“Now that I have your attention,” Dean says a little sharply. “I’ve got a potential Ward downstairs. I was hoping to leave her here, introduce her to who will hopefully be her new teammates.”  
  
“Leave her here?” Dennis asks with a grin. “How very… ungallant of you.” Dean doesn’t so much as twitch. Obviously Dennis is going to have to try harder. “I take it that’s why you came dashing in here earlier. Skipped out on a date with the missus did you?” He sucks in a breath. “I wouldn’t like to be in your shoes when you see her again.”  
  
“You wouldn’t last five minutes in my shoes,” Dean says dryly.  
  
Dammit.  
  
“So, new female Ward?” he asks, changing tacks. Dean nods somewhat warily. “How potential?”  
  
“She’s ready to join up tonight,” he says. “Tomorrow, after a good nights sleep?” He shrugs. “It’s hard to tell. I hope she doesn’t reconsider, for her sake.”  
  
“No, no,” Dennis says, grin widening. “How **much** potential?” he asks, his hands curving in front of his chest, as if to measure unseen bosoms. It’s an asshole move, pretty much purely designed to try and drive Dean up the wall.  
  
It works. Dean grits his teeth and servos whirr as his hands clench briefly. “If I hear that you’ve said something even half that disrespectful…” he says, almost growling, and there’s a brief glow around his right hand.  
  
Score.  
  
Dennis rolls his eyes. “Yeah, yeah, you’ll protect the honour of the maiden fair. I get it. I get it.”  
  
Dean takes a deep breath, then releases it. “Sorry,” he says, not entirely sincerely. “Just… be gentle around her. She’s had a tough time.”  
  
“Well, luckily, we have several consoles here, so she can blow things up to her heart’s content,” he says, and he can sense Dean glaring at him even with his eyes unseen. “Assuming that kind of thing works for her.”  
  
“Is anyone **else** around?” Dean asks hopefully.  
  
He shrugs. “Missy’s doing her homework in her room, last I heard, and Chris is in the Win-den,” he says, then grins again. “But you can leave her with me. I’ll be as good as gold, honest.”  
  
“Surely no one would mind if I just tied him up and stowed him in a closet,” Dean mutters, head tilting upwards slightly. “Just for one night. They’d understand, right?” His tone goes abruptly dry. “They might even thank me.”  
  
“Hey,” Dennis says mildly, feeling the need to defend his honour, though he wouldn’t be at all surprised to find out that Gallant was right about that.  
  
“You don’t mind if she comes up?” Dean asks, serious again.  
  
Dennis shakes his head. “Nah. Be fun to have someone new around the place.”  
  
“Good. If you can ask Chris, I’ll go talk to Missy.”  
  
Dennis springs to his feet and starts bouncing towards the Win-den.  
  
A new potential Ward?  
  
He can’t wait to meet them.


	2. Sociophobia

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Some completely non-canonical snippets from an arc that will never be, in which Astrid somehow ends up transported to Victorian England.

I was trapped. Nowhere to run, nowhere to turn; faced with a decision that my power couldn't help me with.  
  
Which fork should I use?

  
  
*  *  *  *  *

  
"Miss Berklow," sniffed one Miss Violetta March (of the Buckinghamshire Marches; or at least one of the cadet branches). "I do not know how they dance the quadrille over in the colonies, but here in proper English society, it does **not** involve fisticuffs!"

  
  
*  *  *  *  *

  
"I know your secret," hissed my nemesis, practically radiating a kind of vicious pleasure.  
  
But I refused to be intimidated by the likes of **her**. Drawing myself up to my full height, I looked down at her, and in as bored a tone as I could muster, asked: "What secret would that be?"  
  
Had she figured out that I was a time-traveller? A female adventurer? A villain's daughter? What did she possibly think that she had on me?  
  
"A most dreadful secret indeed," Miss March said, sashaying slowly forth from the shadows. "For you, Miss Berklow... have no maid!"


	3. Astrid Asks Armsmaster a Question

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A very important question: a completely non-canonical omake by [Tamoline](http://archiveofourown.org/users/tamoline)

“I was wondering," I said. "What do you do if you need to go to the bathroom when you’re on patrol?”

"Catheter," Armsmaster replied blandly. "I wear one all the time, actually."  
  
"Oh," I said. I guessed that was one way around the problem, even if it didn't sound exactly comfortable.  
  
"And my method for dealing with solid waste is... efficient," he continued as if I hadn't spoken. "When I still had solid waste. Slow drip nutrient injections make sure that my body gets just what it needs on a continual basis. Even better, the lack of digestion means that blood is never redirected away from my brain."  
  
"I... see." But I liked food! I liked eating!  
  
"Altogether, it adds up to a saving of two hours a day," he said, seeming more impassioned. "More if you count the disruption to schedule and brain activity involved. Even as a non-Tinker, you could be spending that time improving yourself, or being out there, defending Brockton Bay from criminals."  
  
I couldn't deny that the thought wasn't tempting. With all the new duties in my life - not to mention the time I now spent socialising - I was slipping behind on both my physical training schedule and my schoolwork.  
  
"Obviously - as a minor - I can't suggest or support you taking such measures," he said. "But I keep my supplies in the closet in my lab, and sometimes I forget to lock it after entering it. So if someone happened to wander in and avail themselves of the opportunity..." he said, giving me a slow wink. "Well, I really couldn't be held accountable."  
  
"Thank you, sir. I'll take that under advisement," I said, a little faintly.  
  
"Very well," he said, nodding at me. "Carry on." He turned and walked off, leaving me a little stunned, looking after him.  
  
Whatever I had been expecting... it really hadn't been that.


	4. Temptation

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Astrid really likes mini-quiches (a deleted scene from 3.07). A canonical omake.

“Here you go,” Chris said, holding out a paper plate as I approached.  
  
“Thank you,” I said, smiling at him as I accepted it. I really wanted to start piling it with food, but despite that — because of it — I made myself wait. (Just as I wouldn’t let my power rule me, nor would I let my instincts. I might not have been able to control my stupid fucking twitchiness around Ae- Carlos, but this, at least, I could control. Anyway, it wasn’t even three hours since lunch. It wasn’t as if I was starving. I could wait a few moments more.) Some impulse made me ask: “Was it your idea to make this a birthday party as well?”  
  
“Uh, yeah,” he said, his face going slightly red as he turned to retrieve his own — loaded — plate from where he’d set it down. “I hope that’s okay?” he continued uncertainly, not quite meeting my eyes. “I mean, I know you said you didn’t usually celebrate your birthday, but I thought, since we were throwing you a party anyway, and um…” He trailed off into an incoherent mumble.  
  
“It’s fine,” I replied, flushing a little myself. “I mean, it’s better than fine,” I amended, not wanting him to think I was just being polite. “It’s… I really appreciate it. Although I’m a little surprised you even remembered.” It had, after all, just been one throwaway remark on a subject quickly changed. Honestly, I’d pretty much forgotten about it until he’d told me that this was a dual-purpose celebration.  
  
“Of course I remembered,” he said quickly. “It was just so, um, I mean…” He shifted uncomfortably in place, dropping his gaze to his plate. “Of course I remembered,” he repeated.  
  
My cheeks heated even more, although I wasn’t entirely sure why. To cover my awkwardness (and because I’d waited long enough to prove that I was perfectly capable of controlling myself), I turned my attention to the food.  
  
“Okay, what do we have here?” I murmured, mostly to myself.  
  
“Oh! Lots of stuff,” Chris said, seemingly recovering from his consternation. He started reeling off the table’s contents, gesturing at the relevant items as he listed them. Given that I could see it all with my own eyes, the description was a little redundant, but I let him talk as I helped myself to a reasonable selection of the bounty. It wasn’t like I minded. Honestly, I kind of liked listening to him ramble on. There was something strangely cheering about his energy and enthusiasm, and it was a relief not to have to worry about saying anything much in response. I found myself smiling a little as he waxed particularly rhapsodic about some tiny little lemon meringue things, and ended up taking one of them even though I hadn’t really been intending to. “And I’m not actually a hundred per cent sure what the cake is,” he concluded. “Carlos’ brother made it.”  
  
“He did?” I asked, surprised. (Carlos had a brother, I noted in a corner of my mind.)  
  
“Yeah.” Chris nodded enthusiastically. “Apparently he really likes baking. He’s good at it, too. Carlos is always bringing in stuff he’s made.”  
  
“I see,” I said. I bit into one of the two mini-quiches I’d allowed myself — one bacon and mushroom, one vegetable; I began with the former — and a small, pleased noise escaped my throat. “That was even better than I remembered,” I said, when my mouth was no longer full.  
  
“I’m glad you liked it,” Chris said, smiling. The tips of his ears had turned pink again, I noticed, although I wasn’t entirely sure what he had to be embarrassed about. Unlike me, he actually knew his way around a party. I had other things to occupy my attention right now, though. Like the second quiche, which was also delicious.  
  
“I really like mini-quiches,” I sighed, when that, too, was gone.  
  
“Why don’t you have another one?” Chris suggested. “There are plenty left.”  
  
“I’ve already had two,” I said reluctantly.  
  
(I tried not to think that even that was an indulgence. Hell, this whole party was an indulgence. I should be doing something useful right now, not just… slacking off and having fun. If Dad found out, he’d… No, he wasn’t here. And if he was, I’d committed far worse offences than just wasting time. Anyway, forming a rapport with your team was important. Plus, the team leader was here, and he’d told me to relax. So I didn’t have to worry about it. It was fine. I was just being stupid.)  
  
“Don’t tell me you’re watching your figure,” Dennis chimed in, around a mouthful of what was undoubtedly one of the more unhealthy options on offer. “Because, trust me, you really don’t have anything to worry about.”  
  
I rolled my eyes.  
  
“If by ‘figure,’ you mean fitness, then yes; yes I am. And it takes effort to maintain, which means not pigging out on mini-quiches.” I couldn’t stop myself from adding: “No matter how delicious they are.”  
  
“That’s just sad,” he said, shaking his head pityingly.  
  
“Well, I didn’t ask your fucking opinion,” I retorted, my voice tight and angry, even though I wasn’t actually sure why I was suddenly so irritated. It wasn’t like this was really any worse than anything he’d said before.  
  
Maybe it was because I really wanted another quiche. (And because, despite my logic and justifications, I still couldn’t completely shake the faint, antsy feeling that I should be working right now.)  
  
He raised his eyebrows a little as he studied me. I ate a sandwich, trying to return his gaze impassively.  
  
“No need to bite my head off,” he said, his tone milder than I would’ve expected.  
  
“Sorry,” I said, grudgingly. I guessed I had overreacted just a little.  
  
“Eh, that’s okay.” He gave a lazy shrug, and then grinned suddenly, his eyes glinting mischievously. “Consider this part of my ongoing project to corrupt you. I mean, just look at those tasty, tasty quiches. Those tiny little morsels of deliciousness. Don’t you **want** another one?”  
  
“That isn’t the point,” I told him, somewhat more snippily than I’d intended.  
  
Dammit.  
  
“So you do want one,” he murmured; his tone making it a statement, rather than a question. And a fucking smug statement at that.  
  
I rolled my eyes.  
  
“I didn’t say otherwise,” I said, with what I thought was a truly remarkable amount of patience. “It just isn’t relevant.”  
  
“Well… why not?” Chris asked, looking puzzled. “I mean, this is a party. It’s your party, even. You’re allowed to indulge a little at your own party.”  
  
“You’re trying to corrupt me, too?” I asked, not sure whether to feel betrayed by him backing up Dennis, or touched by his apparent earnestness. Confusingly, I thought I sort of felt both at once, but that muddled mess was swiftly replaced by amusement as his eyes flew wide and his fading blush returned in full hue.  
  
“Um, no, that wasn’t…” He stammered. “I mean, I’m not… I was just…”  
  
Dennis put a hand on his shoulder, and he ground to a relieved-seeming halt, giving his friend a look I couldn’t figure out. Dennis’ attention seemed to be on me, though, and he still had that sly little grin.  
  
“You don’t need to be so stubborn about it,” he said. “I mean, look at these tasty treats.” He gestured towards the two plates of mini-quiches, lingering over the bacon and mushroom ones before picking one up and holding it aloft like a prize. “Why,” he continued in a low voice. “They’re practically crying out to be eaten.” Holding my gaze, he took a surprisingly delicate bite out of the quiche, chewing and swallowing with evident enjoyment. “Mmmm,” he practically purred. “So… moist.” He finished off the other half with just as much relish, sighing with clear satisfaction when done.  
  
I had to exert all my willpower not to swallow when he did.  
  
I… really, **really** wanted one of those quiches.  
  
And my face felt like it was on fire right now. Or maybe it was just too warm in here.  
  
“You are such an asshole,” I murmured, shaking my head, but I couldn’t quite muster up as much vehemence as I’d intended. I needed to respond somehow, but I knew there was no way in hell I’d be able to retaliate in kind. I really would spontaneously combust. Still, I could hardly let this challenge go unanswered, so I’d have to figure something out. What I wouldn’t have given for his apparent utter lack of self-consciousness right now.  
  
Plus, I was still craving quiche.  
  
Goddammit!  
  
“Do I even want to know what’s going on here?” Dean asked. I glanced around to see him, Missy and, to my dismay, Carlos watching us with clear curiosity.  
  
“Just Astrid being stubborn,” Dennis said airily. “Alas, the maiden fair seems resistant to my charms thus far. But maybe you’ll have better luck.”  
  
I nearly choked. While I fought to keep my composure — or, more accurately, to recover it — Chris spoke up.  
  
“We were just trying to persuade Astrid that she can have another mini-quiche if she wants one. But Dennis took it too far, as usual.”  
  
“Scurrilous lies,” Dennis said, pouting.  
  
Carlos shot him a disappointed look. “I thought you promised you were going to behave yourself,” he said reproachfully, and a spike of alarm popped my confused, irritated embarrassment like a bubble. Dennis might have been guilty of being an asshole in the first degree, but I didn’t want him to get in trouble.  
  
“It’s fine, Sir,” I said hurriedly, attempting a smile. “He was just messing around.”  
  
“I knew you liked me,” God’s perfect idiot murmured unwisely, sounding entirely too pleased with himself for my liking. I would’ve glowered at him, but I couldn’t take my attention away from Carlos, who was giving me the strangest look right now.  
  
After a moment, he smiled a little awkwardly.  
  
“No sirs at this party, remember,” he said gently.  
  
“Right. Sorry,” I said, my stomach twisting uneasily even as I tried to scrounge up a smile of my own. “I meant, it’s fine, Carlos.”  
  
“Well, that isn’t like pulling teeth at all,” Dennis murmured, shaking his head.  
  
“Fuck off, Dennis,” I told him, somewhat irritably. “I’ll have you know that breaking the habit of a lifetime is not easy.” I was suddenly extremely conscious of the fact that everyone was looking at me, and very aware that this subject held danger if someone chose to pursue it. There was way more curiosity aimed in my direction than I was really comfortable with. “Anyway,” I continued, making a deliberate effort to soften my tone a little. “Can you please move aside? You’re blocking the mini-quiches.”  
  
I was distantly aware of Dean striking up a conversation with Missy, but I wasn’t really paying attention right now. I was focused on the food.  
  
The hell with it. This was a party. More than that, it was my party. One more ‘morsel of deliciousness,’ as Dennis had called them — not at all inaccurately, in my opinion — wasn’t going to do me any harm. Anyway, I told myself, trying to soothe the inevitable pangs of guilt, I could always step up my work-out routine to compensate if necessary.  
  
Dennis smirked obnoxiously as he moved aside.  
  
“So the iron maiden isn’t entirely unyielding after all. That’s good to know.”  
  
“Go fuck yourself, asshole,” I told him, a little surprised at how cheerful I sounded. Hell, I even felt relatively cheerful right now. It was amazing how much a simple thing like a bacon and mushroom mini-quiche could lift my spirits.  
  
Fuck, it tasted good.  
  
“Such profanity,” Dennis murmured, effecting a shocked expression. “You kiss your mother with that mouth?”  
  
“Hardly,” I shot back distractedly, most of my attention on the quiche. These things were so damn good. “My mother’s dead.”  
  
As soon as the words were out of my mouth I knew they were a mistake. The sudden silence only reinforced that. I glanced up to see everyone staring at me again. And Dennis… Dennis had gone white as a sheet.  
  
“I’m… I’m sorry,” he stuttered, his voice so stricken I wouldn’t have recognised it if I hadn’t seen him speaking. “I didn’t know. I’m so sorry.”  
  
There were more expressions of sympathy from the others, and I tried not to show how uncomfortable it made me.  
  
“Thanks,” I said stiffly. “But it’s okay. I was only a baby when she died. I don’t even remember her.” I shrugged. “Can’t miss what you never knew.”  
  
That… wasn’t strictly true. I might never have known the woman herself, but I still felt her absence. Dad had made sure of that. Despite being dead and gone fifteen years, Mom still cast a fuck of a deep shadow over my family.  
  
Over me.  
  
“Was it…” Dennis’ voice cracked. He swallowed and tried again. “Did she get sick?”  
  
I tensed.  
  
“No,” I said, shortly, resisting the urge to drop my gaze to my plate. “But I don’t really want to talk about it.”  
  
“Oh, right. Of course.” Dennis still sounded nothing at all like himself. “I’m sorry.”  
  
I shrugged again. I wasn’t sure I could manage anything like a convincing smile right now, but I made an effort to soften my tone as I spoke.  
  
“It’s okay. Really. Don’t worry about it.” I studied him, still surprised at how shaken he seemed. Just remorse, or was it a sensitive subject for him? “I feel like I should be asking you if you’re okay,” I added hesitantly, wanting to help but not knowing how.  
  
“What?” He looked startled for all of a heartbeat before his features rearranged themselves into his default expression of amusement; like he knew some secret joke. “Oh, I’m fine,” he said, waving a hand as if to dismiss the very idea that he might not be. “I just wasn’t quite intending to be that much of an asshole. I guess it was just a brief pang of conscience. Or indigestion. It’s hard to tell the difference sometimes. But then, I’m generally lucky enough not to suffer from an overabundance of conscience. I keep trying to do away with it altogether, but it stubbornly clings to life; popping up again at the most inconvenient times. Kind of like a weed.”  
  
I raised my eyebrows a little, amused despite myself. Which was almost certainly his intent. But if he didn’t want to talk, I wasn’t going to press him. Certainly not here, in front of anyone.  
  
(Maybe I’d ask him if we ended up having another late night talk.)  
  
(Maybe I’d also ask him why he was having trouble sleeping.)  
  
(Maybe.)  
  
“So you were intending to be an asshole, just not as much of one?” I drawled, more than happy to roll with the subject change.  
  
“It’s all part of my charm,” he said, loftily, and smirked at me. “I am touched by your concern, though.”  
  
“Touched in the head, more like,” I shot back, relieved to be back on familiar ground. I didn’t even mind when he smirked obnoxiously back at me and said something that almost made me splutter.  
  
Maybe I could do this party thing after all.


	5. Musical Chairs

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Astrid shows her competitive side (a deleted scene from 3.08). A canonical omake.

“Are you fucking with me?” I asked warily, eyeing Dennis with suspicion.  
  
“What? Me?” He pressed a hand to his chest, looking like butter wouldn’t melt in his mouth. “Would I?”  
  
“Absolutely,” I said, my tone flatter than a pancake.  
  
“He actually isn’t,” Chris assured me, smiling. “At least, not this time. We just thought, well, since you’ve never had a birthday party before, it might be fun for you to catch up on some of the things you’ve missed out on. Like party games.”  
  
“Musical chairs, though?” I asked, dubiously. “Isn’t that a bit… childish?”  
  
“That’s what I said,” Missy muttered.  
  
“Maybe a little,” Chris said. “But that doesn’t mean it isn’t fun.”  
  
There was that word again. Why was everyone around here obsessed with having fun? Well, maybe not everyone. Missy seemed to have her head screwed on straight in that regard, and I suspected Sophia did too, from her clear combat ability and physical fitness. But everyone else and their dog seemed to be all about taking breaks and slacking off. Or, at least, that was what they kept advising me to do. Even Carlos, for fuck’s sake.  
  
Still… this was a party. And if the team leader was happy for us all to waste time like this, then I guessed there was no point in objecting.  
  
“Fine,” I said, trying not to sound put-upon. “Let’s do this.”

 

*  *  *  *  *

 

“Hey! That’s cheating!” Chris hollered indignantly, as the structure of the hub went… weird, the chair he’d been angling for suddenly far closer to Missy than him. There was an incredibly smug expression on her face as she sat down.  
  
“No one said we couldn’t use powers,” she said, as the Hub went back to normal.  
  
“She’s right,” I said, amused. Chris shot me a look of absolute betrayal, which made me feel a little bad. I shrugged from the safety of my own seat. “Sorry.”  
  
“It’s probably against the spirit of the rules,” Carlos said, shaking his head. “But I’ll allow it. Sorry, Chris.”  
  
“Fine,” Chris said, although he didn’t seem all that dejected as he headed over to join Carlos and Dean, giving Dean a sour look as the team’s unofficial-official photographer documented the occasion of his loss. I was still a little leery of the idea of someone taking pictures of me, but the none of the others seemed to mind, and they’d assured me that no one but them would see the photos; that the memory card itself would remain within the Wards HQ. I was relieved that they had at least that much tradecraft.  
  
It still felt weird, though.  
  
With Chris out of the frame, that just left me, Missy and Dennis.  
  
“Okay, next round,” Dennis said cheerfully, carrying his own chair off to the side and moving the remaining two a little further apart. “Having fun yet, Belated Birthday Girl?”  
  
“Yes, actually,” I said.  
  
“You don’t need to sound so surprised,” Dennis murmured.  
  
I shrugged awkwardly, not sure what to say to that.  
  
“Okay, everybody ready?” Carlos asked, his hand poised on the controls for the sound system. The three of us gave our assent, and the music started up again.  
  
As we circled the remaining two chairs, I thought about tactics. If powers were allowed, that… changed things. I wasn’t sure I had a good counter for Missy’s power that wouldn’t be overkill for a mere party game. (Not so much a counter for her power itself so much as a counter for her. After all, she probably couldn’t wield that power effectively if she had other things to worry about. Like being suddenly blind, or unable to breathe, or whatever.) Dennis… I had some ideas there, some of which probably wouldn’t even be considered too excessive. Huh. Maybe there was a benefit to games like this after all. It certainly encouraged creative solutions to the tactical problems they presented.  
  
The music stopped, and there was no more time for thought, just for action. I dived for the nearest chair. The topography of the Hub twisted, but both chairs remained exactly where they were, Missy making a soft sound of surprise. I hit my target, settling into my seat, brushing my fingers over it in a gesture that was starting to become habit. As soon as I made contact, I knew instantly what had happened. I turned to see Dennis settling into the other seat while Missy looked on with annoyance.  
  
“You time-locked both chairs between rounds,” I said, with unwilling admiration. “Pretty fucking sly of you.”  
  
“Thank you for the compliment,” he replied, smirking.  
  
“Okay, I think that was a little out of bounds,” Carlos said, frowning.  
  
“It’s fine,” Missy said, her tone careless as she shrugged and headed off to join the others. “I was getting tired of this game anyway.”  
  
“Looks like it’s just you and me, Astrid,” Dennis said. “Unless you want to concede victory now.”  
  
“Not a fucking chance,” I told him, grinning. “Although we are going to wait until the chairs unfreeze.”  
  
“Fine,” he agreed, so easily that I knew he just had to have some trick up his sleeve. Oh well. That just meant I’d have to be on my guard.  
  
I really was enjoying this.

 

*  *  *  *  *

 

The music stopped and I threw myself into motion, lashing out with a cable — prepared ahead of time, because Dennis wasn’t the only one who could play fast and loose with the rules — in the direction of the chair. My metal hit, held and contracted, yanking the object towards me. Dennis didn’t even go for the chair itself, instead lunging directly for me, but I’d half-been expecting something of the sort. I darted aside (suppressing the instinct to lash out at him with the cable wrapped around my other arm) and slammed my ass down onto the seat, looking up at him with an expression of triumph.  
  
“Too slow, Dennis,” I said, shaking my head.  
  
“Guess so,” he drawled back, skidding to a halt. “You really are-“ His hand snapped out mid-sentence, the energy of the movement a complete contrast to the laziness of his tone. He was fast, but I was faster, wrapping a cable around his arm and turning it rigid, keeping his hand at bay. “Competitive,” he finished.  
  
“You’re damn right I am,” I retorted, grinning fiercely.  
  
He could almost certainly have frozen the cable, binding us together in a way not under my control. Hell, if his power was transmitted through connected objects — something I’d been unable to ascertain for sure from the information available — he might still have been able to freeze me. Either option would have meant trapping himself too, though. I wasn’t sure whether he, like me, would have done so anyway, taking a pyrrhic victory — really, more of a draw — over nothing at all, but it was a chance I was willing to take.  
  
Anyway, either outcome was one I thought I could live with. Sometimes, a draw, or even a loss, was acceptable as long as you made your opponent pay dearly for it.  
  
As it was, though, he just grinned slyly at me.  
  
“So you are into tying people up,” he murmured, his voice low and suggestive. “Or maybe it’s just me.”  
  
My cheeks burned, of course, but, to my surprise, I found myself laughing.  
  
“You’re an asshole, Dennis,” I said, shoving him away with my metal before releasing him from its grip. He rubbed at his wrist, wincing exaggeratedly. I ignored his theatrics. I hadn’t bound him that tightly, after all. “Anyway,” I said, glancing around at the others as I got to my feet. (I put a little more distance between me and Dennis, just in case he tried anything else, but he seemed content to wander off and grab a snack.) “I believe this means I’ve won?”  
  
“Congratulations,” Dean said, smiling wryly as he lowered his camera. I hoped he’d got a decent shot of my victory.  
  
As the others added their own congratulations — Dennis grousing good-naturedly about their apparent enthusiasm — I found myself thinking that maybe I could get used to this.


	6. Conversation and Contemplation

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Astrid has a chat, followed by some time to herself (deleted scenes from 3.15). A canonical omake.

“And, all done,” said Janice, the nurse, as I was finally freed from the clutches of the Device of Doom, AKA the Unholy Beeper, AKA that fucking heart monitor.  
  
“Thank you,” I said, although mere words alone could not hope to convey the depths of my gratitude.  
  
“I know, they can be annoying,” she said, and I was too relieved to feel irritated by her obvious amusement.  
  
“Really fucking annoying,” I agreed, and held back a wince as my brain caught up with my mouth. “Sorry,” I muttered, my cheeks heating.  
  
Janice laughed. “Most of the people I see in here are PRT officers,” she said, in a confiding tone. “I’m afraid it’s going to take more than a single F-bomb to shock me, sweetie.” Sweetie? Was she serious? Before I could even start to figure that out, though, she said, “Wait there a moment, I’ll be right back,” and ducked out through the curtains.  
  
Puzzled, I did as I was told. And if I levelled a death glare at the thankfully quiescent heart monitor while I waited, well, that was just between me and the electronic snitch.  
  
She wasn’t gone long — a couple of minutes at most — and when she returned, she was carrying a bundle in her arms. She placed it on the bed beside me, and I could see that it was a set of clothing in the familiar regulation grey. One of the generic cape costumes? No, it looked thinner than that. Probably the equally familiar sweatpants, T-shirt and hoodie combo, then.  
  
“You’ll probably want these,” Janice said, interrupting my covert examination. “Your things are in the cabinet over there…” My relief at those words was so powerful that I actually missed her next few words. Forcing myself to focus on what she was saying — rather than, say, darting over to the cabinet so I could wrench the door open and retrieve my property — it seemed that I hadn’t missed all that much. “…laundry can only do so much,” she was saying. “There was quite a lot of blood, I’m afraid.”  
  
“Blood?” I blurted out, and then qualified my outburst with, “Um, sorry for interrupting.”  
  
“That’s alright, dear,” she said kindly. “You had quite a bad nosebleed, that was all. But, as I was saying, I shouldn’t imagine you’d want to wear those clothes again, at least not in public. And, well…” She lowered her voice a little, sounding almost scandalised as she went on to say, “I shouldn’t think you’d want to wear them out in public in any case. Frankly, they’re little better than underwear.”  
  
“I was wearing them under my armour,” I muttered, flushing with embarrassment.  
  
One of the things I’d figured out while practicing with my armour was that, the more skin contact I had with the metal, the easier it was to control. And I’d needed all the control I could get. So, rather than the armoured bodysuit that would go under the real thing, yesterday I’d just worn shorts and a tank top. It was just as well that controlling the temperature of my metal didn’t take much in the way of effort or concentration.  
  
But, anyway, the shorts and top weren’t exactly indecent! I wore them for working out in all the time, and no one had ever said anything about it. Well, no one apart from Dennis, when he’d described me as half-naked. But that was just him being an asshole. It didn’t mean anything.  
  
Not that I was planning on arguing the point with Janice.  
  
I did think it strange, though, that she apparently had a problem with my workout gear but hadn’t batted an eye at my swearing. In my experience, adults who got their knickers in a twist over ‘unladylike attire’ also tended to bitch and moan about so-called ‘unladylike language.’ Like some of the assholes in that backwoods, bible-thumping white-supremacist militia Lance and I had trained with a couple of years back. Shit, I didn’t think there was anything about me they hadn’t disapproved of, but then their views on what ‘ladylike’ meant were archaic at best and fucking offensive at worst. Hell, the only reason they’d even agreed to train me at all was because they really needed Dad, and he’d made training both of his kids a condition of his… employment. But they certainly hadn’t liked it, and they sure as shit hadn’t been shy about letting me know that.  
  
Assholes.  
  
“Well, you have these now,” Janice said firmly, dragging me back from my brief trip down memory lane. She patted the bundle of clothes. “Oh, and while I remember, these will help your eyes.” She reached into the pocket of her grey scrubs and took out what looked a little like a pair of swimming goggles with darkened lenses, setting them down on top of the bundle. “They’re easier to wear with a mask than sunglasses are, or so I’m told.”  
  
Huh. I guessed I shouldn’t have been surprised. No doubt PRT staff were eminently familiar with thinker headaches. Or, rather, parahuman cerebral overexertion syndrome. It made sense that they would have mask-friendly sunglasses readily available.  
  
“Thank you,” I said. I made myself smile, even though the expression felt kind of weird on my face, like someone else was making it. Was this the dissociation Dr Hart had talked about?  
  
“You’re very welcome, honey,” Janice said. “Don’t worry about returning those. You can hang onto them if you like. Just in case.”  
  
“Thanks,” I said, again, feeling awkward.  
  
“Well, I’ll let you have some privacy to get dressed,” she said cheerily. She started turn away, but paused, looking at me. In a surprisingly earnest tone, she said, “You did a good thing last night, Talos. A brave thing. You helped to save a lot of lives.”  
  
Guilt and grief made a knotted lump in my throat.  
  
“Not everyone,” I heard myself say, hoarsely.  
  
“Oh, sweetie,” Janice said, and she sounded kind of sad. “You can’t always save everyone. But you tried, and that’s important. And you did make a difference. That’s the thing you should be focusing on.”  
  
_But I should’ve done more,_ I wanted to say.  
  
_I should’ve been better,_ I railed silently.  
  
_I shouldn’t have fucked up,_ I only just stopped myself from blurting out, trapping the words behind my teeth as they struggled to break free.  
  
In the end, though, I swallowed all of that back down to say, simply, “I’ll try.”  
  
I honestly wasn’t sure if I meant it, but it seemed to be the kind of thing she’d want to hear.  
  
From the way she nodded, and maybe smiled, I thought I’d guessed right.  
  
And then, thankfully, she left me alone with my thoughts.

 

*  *  *  *  *

 

For a moment I just sat there, staring stupidly at the curtains as their swaying diminished to back to stillness. Part of me wanted to dive under the covers, or even under the bed itself; just curl myself up into as small a space as I could and hide from the whole damn world. I ignored that impulse like the weakness it was. Instead, I glanced surreptitiously around, checking for cameras. There were none that I could see, but then my eyesight was for shit right now. The world around me was blotchy with writhing blobs of colour and glaringly over-bright, like I was staring directly at a bare lightbulb.  
  
Anyway, it wasn’t like a camera would necessarily be visible. I tried to console myself with the thought that I hadn’t sensed any cameras on either of the previous occasions I’d been in here. Granted, the last time had been just over a week ago — for a check-up that had proved to be completely pointless in the end, given that Panacea had fixed me completely the very next day — but the PRT probably hadn’t randomly decided to install surveillance measures in the infirmary during that time. Although…  
  
Fuck.  
  
I was going full-on tinfoil hat, wasn’t I?  
  
I took a deep breath, letting it out slowly, trying to visualise breathing the anxiety and the weakness and the tension out with it.  
  
It didn’t help.  
  
Without deciding to move, I suddenly found my head in my hands, my whole body shaking like a leaf in a thunderstorm. My face felt hot and tight, especially the skin around my eyes. I pressed clumsy, trembling fingers against it, brushing them over my closed eyelids and the mask that framed them; working my fingertips under the cloth to touch my aching cheeks. There was, of course, no dampness for them to find. For a brief, heart stopping moment, my nostrils were filled with a heavy, metallic scent, but then the moment passed, and the only thing I could smell were the faint but ever-present traces of disinfectant in the air.  
  
Sick with disgust — at my memories, at my failure, at myself — I wrenched my hands away from my face and placed them on my knees, curling my fingers into fists. Tighter and tighter I clenched them, until my nails, short as they were, bit into the palms of my hands. I kept the pressure on, focusing on the trivial, inconsequential sting of it. Thanks to the aftereffects of the migraine it was worse than it should have been, but still insignificant in the grand scheme of things. Either way, it served its purpose.  
  
Unlike the visualisation exercise, this actually did help, dragging my thoughts back from dark places and grounding me firmly in the here and now. When I was certain that I wasn’t going to drift again, I let my fingers uncurl, flexing them once, twice, three times. I gave my palms a cursory once over, just in case, but as I’d expected there was no real damage. Just little crescent marks that would fade soon enough. Transient. Meaningless.  
  
Like the scars that Amy had taken from me, in the end.  
  
But that wasn’t a line of thought I wanted to pursue right now. Anyway, what was the point? It was in the past. What was done was done. There was no going back.  
  
(And, anyway, there would always be new scars.)  
  
With that bout of stupidity out of the way, my thoughts, and my gaze, turned towards the cabinet next to the bed. The one that Janice had said contained my things. I was on my feet before I’d even decided to move, the room whirling around me for a moment before it settled down again, but I made myself stop and take a breath. Instead of allowing myself to rush right over and reclaim my property like I wanted, I made myself get dressed first.  
  
_Control,_ I told myself, firmly. _It’s just stuff. And it’s not going anywhere._  
  
Light as it was, the fabric of the clothing felt like sandpaper against my skin. Perhaps I would have been better off with my shorts and vest after all, but I wouldn’t have wanted Janice to think that I was ungrateful. And at least it wasn’t one of the cape costumes. I shuddered to think what that heavier, armoured material would’ve felt like right now.  
  
Just how many sets of clothing did the PRT keep in storage, anyway? I had a sudden mental image of a cavernous space lined with with rack upon rack of T-shirts, hoodies and sweatpants; drawers full of socks and underwear and slippers. Like some kind of giant walk-in closet. No, that was ridiculous. Most likely it was just a  small storeroom piled with boxes, at least for the new stuff. The ones that had been worn and laundered were probably just shoved in bins, or on shelves, sorted by size. That thought made me briefly wonder how Janice had known what size to get, but a moment’s consideration provided an obvious answer. They had the clothes I’d been wearing; someone had probably just checked the labels.  
  
And wasn’t that a mortifying thought? While I’d been unconscious, someone had undressed me, underwear and all. Washed me too, given that I wasn’t actually covered in blood at the moment. A stranger, putting their hands on me while I’d been utterly helpless to stop them. My skin crawled at the thought. No matter how many times I told myself they’d been trying to help me, not harm me, it didn’t make me feel one whit better.  
  
Did I say, mortifying? Maybe I meant horrifying.  
  
I supposed I should be grateful that they’d at least put me in a hospital gown afterwards.  
  
Anyway, it felt good to be dressed properly again, no matter how much it irritated my skin. It felt even better to put on the modified sunglasses, the pain in my eyes and head easing fractionally at the dimming of that awful glare. I probably looked ridiculous, but I didn’t give a fuck. A little ridiculousness was a price I was more than willing to pay for something that helped me be a little more functional.  
  
Once that was done, I finally allowed myself to reclaim my stuff. My phone was the most important. I dreaded to think how much trouble I would’ve been in if I’d lost or damaged that, but it was there, safe and sound. And, apparently, stuffed to the gills with about a bazillion messages. I started to unlock it, hesitated a moment, and then let it be, tucking it away in my pocket. The messages would keep until I got back to my room. I was practically burning with curiosity, but the need for privacy burned even hotter. At least I could lock my room. For the first time in my life, I didn’t have to worry about people just barging in on me whenever the fuck they felt like it. Being somewhere I could just decompress for a while without having to worry about dealing with other people sounded really fucking good right about now.  
  
As did finding a bathroom. Yeah, that was definitely starting to be a priority.  
  
I quickly gathered the rest of my things, stowing them either in my pockets, or in the bag that some kind soul had bundled yesterday’s clothes into. Janice was right about the shortcomings of the PRT laundry service, I noted with some displeasure. I was actually a little surprised. Given the presence of soldiers and an infirmary, I would’ve thought dealing with bloodstains was a skill they would’ve perfected by now. Or… maybe it said more about the quality of my clothes than the efficacy of their detergents. I wasn’t going to throw them away, though. A little discolouration didn’t make them unwearable, after all. I might have expanded my wardrobe beyond the single bag I’d brought from ho… brought with me, but that didn’t mean it would sit right with me to throw away perfectly functional garments.  
  
On a completely random note, I wondered idly if one of those gazillion messages on my phone had been from Victoria. I supposed I would find out soon enough.  
  
Moving on autopilot, I started to make my bed, but then realised they’d probably want to wash the bedding. So I stripped it instead, neatly stacking the pillows, folded sheets and blankets and my gown at one end. After giving the place a quick once-over to make sure I hadn’t left anything out of place, I took a deep breath, opened the curtains and headed out of the infirmary.


	7. Operation 'Make a Goddamn Sandwich'

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Astrid makes a sandwich (a deleted scene from 3.17). A canonical omake.

Pain, I could endure. Mere discomfort, I could shrug off with nary a thought. But this latest indignity would have sent even the most stoic individual into a frenzy of wailing and gnashing of teeth. It was a catastrophe of truly epic proportions.  
  
I was so fucking hungry right now it felt like my stomach was eating itself, but when I swung by the kitchen with the intent of taking steps to fill the gaping void in my midsection, it turned out that… that…  
  
Hellfire and damnation.  
  
I was too fucking nauseous to actually eat!  
  
Maybe I really had suffered an aneurysm last night. Maybe I’d died and wound up in one of the deepest pits of hell. Maybe this was a torment lovingly crafted for me by my own personal demon.  
  
Or… maybe I was being a touch melodramatic.  
  
Anyway, this would pass, right? Maybe soon? Maybe really soon, like now-ish? So I was probably just getting worked up over nothing. Hell, I thought my stomach might already have settled quite a bit, so maybe it would be fine after all.  
  
And then I could laugh about how completely and utterly ridiculous I was being.  
  
 _Okay. Alright. Fine. Operation ‘Make a Goddamn Sandwich,’ take two._  
  
I drew in a slow, deep breath, let it out, and slowly straightened from my position hunched over the kitchen sink. My bruises complained at me, naturally, but I ignored them as best as I could, trying to concentrate on positive things. Like the fact that I hadn’t actually thrown up. Not that there was actually anything in my stomach to throw up right now, but it was something, at least.  
  
I crossed the short distance to my workstation with slow, measured steps and surveyed the terrain, taking stock of how I felt when I set eyes upon the food. There was some queasiness, but nothing too significant, so I cleared myself to proceed. Before I’d had to bolt for the sink, I’d gotten as far as setting out two slices of bread — whole wheat, naturally — on a plate and spreading them with a thin layer of margarine. First things first, I put the lid back on the margarine and returned it to its proper place in the fridge. The knife I’d used went into the sink so I could wash it when I was done.  
  
 _So far, so good._  
  
Next, I unwrapped the cheese — a nice, sharp cheddar — and set it on the chopping block so I could cut some thin slices. It suddenly occurred to me that this was the first time since discovering that I could use my power for food preparation that I’d actually done this the mundane way, using a knife.  
  
It was kind of soothing, actually.  
  
That task complete, I laid out the slices on one of the pieces of bread, neatly aligning the edges and making sure there were no gaps or overlapping areas. I had to admit, there was a strong temptation to just slap them on any old how, but just because I was half-afraid I’d look down to see an actual hole in my middle, that was no excuse for sloppy work.  
  
 _Control,_ I told myself, sternly.  
  
There was a brief flare up of nausea and dizziness, but I stood still and focused on breathing slowly and evenly until it passed.  
  
I refused to be a slave to… to weakness.  
  
Next, a lettuce leaf. It wasn’t as crisp as I would’ve liked, but as it had been a week since my shopping trip, I guessed that was only to be expected.  
  
Fuck. How was I supposed to do my grocery shopping if I was having to look over my shoulder for Dad all the time? The PRT was pretty good about keeping the kitchen stocked with basics, but they tended towards things that would either last a while — tins, jars and dried goods — or would be consumed before it went bad. I guessed they assumed that anyone wanting salad, or something made with fresh vegetables, would just head up to the canteen. But I wanted to have the option of not having to venture out of the Wards HQ to eat if I didn’t want to. And, well, I liked to make my own food. It was relaxing. More importantly, it meant I knew exactly what was in it. Proper nutrition was important, after all.  
  
Goddammit, I needed to be able to go shopping. I needed to be able to leave the fucking building once in a while. I wasn’t used to being cooped up indoors. Even a couple of weeks had been enough to make me somewhat stir crazy.  But every time I set foot outside, I risked being dragged back… Well, not home. Our… The house hadn’t just been abandoned, but burned down. So, dragged off to wherever Dad was holing up at the moment. And then he’d…  
  
And then…  
  
And then I’d be royally fucked.  
  
My hands wanted to shake, but I refused to let them. Before I could work myself into a real tizzy, I made myself stop and breathe again, deliberately shelving the problem for the time being. I’d figure it out when I was a little more (a lot more) compos mentis. For the moment, though, I had an objective to complete.  
  
This cucumber wouldn’t slice itself, after all.  
  
At least not while I was still suffering from power burnout.  
  
There was a trick to layering cucumber slices neatly on a sandwich: cut the cucumber in half lengthwise before cutting it into slices. It tessellated better that way. (Plus, there was actually something quite… soothing… about seeing the little green semicircles all neatly lined up, with minimal spaces between them.)  
  
Another lettuce leaf followed the cucumber. I needed to use it up before it deliquesced, after all.  
  
Into the final stretch now, and I was starting to think that maybe the worst had passed; that I’d finally managed to wrestle my stupid fucking feeble body into submission. That I’d finally managed to reassert some measure of control over my life.  
  
Cheered by the thought, I set the tomato on the chopping board and sliced it in half.  
  
It… squished a little beneath my fingers. And then it oozed. And… And…  
  
 _Oh, **fuck**._  
  
Carelessly dropping the knife on the chopping board, I ran for the bathroom, or started to, the room spinning around around me like a carousel. I had to catch myself on the table, and I wasn’t going to make it to the bathroom like this, and anyway it was too late, and so I ended up hunched over the sink again, retching miserably as my stomach made a break for freedom.  
  
Somehow, a voice in the back of my mind managed to keep up a running commentary about how utterly fucking disgusting this was. This was a kitchen for crying out loud! It just… it wasn’t sanitary! I was going to have to sterilise the sink when I was done, and I really wasn’t sure I would be able to cope with the smell of disinfectant right now. Also, I would definitely have to brush my teeth, even if nothing was actually coming up. But toothpaste would make the sandwich taste off, even supposing I could bring myself to eat it at all. I couldn’t waste it, though. Even the very thought of wasting food horrified me. I could put it in the fridge for later, but then the bread might go soggy. Or stale. Or, worse, stale **and** soggy. Plus, the lettuce would wilt further and… and…  
  
I thought I was finally done.  
  
I wanted to slump down onto the floor. Instead, I made myself straighten again, taking care to move slowly so I didn’t have another fucking dizzy spell. My stupid body wouldn’t stop trembling, no matter how much I tried to force it to be still.  
  
The feeling of betrayal was as bitter as bile.  
  
I rinsed my mouth out with water. I didn’t bother to use a glass, instead simply sticking my cupped hand under the tap and drinking directly from that. Not the most civilised thing to do, perhaps, but given I only narrowly avoided trying to shove my whole head under there, I couldn’t find the energy to get too hung up on that right now. I washed my hands as well, then cleaned the knife I’d put in the sink earlier, resolutely ignoring the way the hot water felt like it was scalding my hands. It was probably just my thoroughly fucked temperature regulation at work. Although my skin was a little pink when I inspected my hands afterwards, so maybe the water had been a tad on the hot side.  
  
Whatever. It didn’t matter.  
  
 _Okay,_ I thought to myself. _New plan._  
  
I didn’t want to spray disinfectant with food out in the open — that shit always spread further than you thought it would — so as a stopgap measure I cleaned the sink with washing up detergent. I wasn’t sure how much use that would be, but it made me feel better, at any rate. Next, I made my way to the bathroom via my room, so I could brush my teeth. Thoroughly.  
  
A short while after that, I stood before the kitchen work surface again, facing my newly-declared nemesis.  
  
 _Operation ‘Make a Goddamn Sandwich,’ take three._  
  
Not looking at the tomato while I sliced it actually seemed to help. I did have to look to make sure I arranged the slices neatly on the sandwich, but aside from a brief lurch, my stomach remained obediently quiescent. Even so, I did feel a little better when the tomato was safely concealed beneath a lettuce leaf.  
  
I couldn’t help a small flare of triumph as I placed the second slice of bread on top.  
  
 _Objective complete, motherfucker._


	8. Opportunity

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> How the Wards were won. Or lost, depending on your point of view.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A deleted scene from Interlude 3: Emily

_It’s like the world’s gone mad, and I’m the only sane person left._  
  
It wasn’t the first time that such a sentiment had crossed Director Emily Piggot’s mind, nor the tenth, nor even the hundredth. But on this occasion the thought — the mantra — rang hollow, and she found herself adding, _And I’m starting to doubt my own sanity._  
  
Especially on days like today.  
  
Sometimes she wondered, if someone had told her exactly what the directorship of the PRT ENE branch involved, back when she was offered the position, would she have turned it down? But, just like every other time the idle musing had crossed her mind, she already knew the answer.  
  
_Not a chance in hell._  
  
Even on days like today.  
  
Even though there were far, far too many days like today.  
  
Judging that the young man sitting across the desk from her had marinaded in his own juices long enough, Emily closed the file folder in her hands and set it down on the desk. A sharp kind of amusement flickered inside her as Triumph turned his head slightly to follow its progress. The contents of the folder didn’t even have anything to do with the matter at hand. It was a non-urgent report she’d been meaning to review when she had a spare moment; one of the handful she’d printed out for occasions like this. While she could have studied the electronic version of the document, there was a certain… psychological weight to paging through a hardcopy that staring at a screen and clicking a mouse simply didn’t possess.  
  
Besides, there were occasions when paper was more convenient than a laptop or tablet, and that, in her mind, was enough to justify the use of resources.  
  
To Triumph’s credit, he forced his gaze back up to meet Emily’s more or less right away. Even more impressively, he didn’t flinch at the stern expression she wore.  
  
(Capes had their masks, and she had hers. One way or another, didn’t everyone?)  
  
“Explain to me,” she said, “in your own words, exactly how this happened.”  
  
Triumph nodded, but took a moment to collect himself before speaking. She mentally tipped her hat to him for not letting himself be rushed into answering. Not surprising, perhaps, given his background, but still. A useful trait for a leader to have.  
  
If he was very lucky, when this all was over he might even still be in a position to need his leadership skills.  
  
“Vista and Aegis were on patrol,” he began, his tone clipped and professional-sounding. “I was manning the console. Near the end of the shift, I noticed a disturbance on one of the feeds involving what looked like Empir Eighty-Eight members. It wasn’t clear from the footage exactly what was happening, so I dispatched the pair of them to observe and report.”  
  
“Even though that took them outside their designated patrol area?”  
  
“Yes, Ma’am.”  
  
Emily let the silence stretch a beat or two to see if he would offer up anything else — any justifications, or attempts to save face — but he kept his mouth shut, earning himself a sliver of respect in her eyes.  
  
Not that it would help him.  
  
“You didn’t see fit to call the disturbance in?” she asked, a hint of disapproval in her tone. “Let the PRT or the Protectorate handle it?”  
  
“I did call it in,” he said levelly. “But Vista and Aegis could reach the site quicker. Sending them seemed like the optimal choice.”  
  
“A sixteen year old boy and an eleven year old girl,” she murmured. There was no satisfaction in seeing him flinch. “So,” she continued briskly. “You ordered Vista and Aegis into a potential combat situation.”  
  
“I… asked them to find out what was going on, Director. Not to engage.” There was a definite edge to his voice when he added. “The protocol is for Wards to avoid engaging hostile forces, especially hostile capes.”  
  
_Children,_ Emily thought, although the tone of it was closer to pity than rancour. It was almost endearing when they tried quoting chapter and verse to her. Her, of all people. As if she didn’t know the protocol backwards, upside down and sideways.  
  
“Indeed,” she said mildly, a thin smile on her lips. “I’m pleased to see that you have at least a passing familiarity with the regulations governing Ward deployment.”  
  
“Thank you,” he said cautiously, when she didn’t continue right away.  
  
She let her face settle back into its familiar stern lines, hardening her tone to say, “Of course, that makes it all the more mystifying to me that a pair of Wards under your command ended up in an altercation with Hookwolf of the Empire.”  
  
“It wasn’t precisely an altercation,” he said, but he didn’t sound nearly so sure of himself as he had a moment ago. “They just… got in his way.”  
  
Emily’s eyes narrowed. “Thank you for clearing that up. I’m sure it will be a great relief to Aegis’ parents to know that, even though their son currently looks like he was fed into a meat grinder face first, he wasn’t **technically** involved in an fight with a villain.”  
  
“That’s wasn’t what I-“  
  
“Still,” she said, as if he hadn’t spoken. “It could have been worse. Vista could have been standing where Aegis was.”  
  
There was a faint creaking noise, as if of material under stress, and she surmised that Triumph was clenching his fists.  
  
“He… Not even Hookwolf would have… I mean, she’s just a kid.”  
  
“A kid you sent blindly into that situation,” Emily pointed out, her voice quiet, yet implacable. “And it is nothing short of a miracle that she came out of it unharmed.”  
  
She shuddered inside to think of what could have been; what, by the sounds of it, was avoided only by the grace of a god she no longer believed in. (Just one more thing that Ellisburg had taken from her.)  
  
The potential fallout — severe though that would have been — was almost an afterthought.  
  
_When did it come to this?_ she found herself thinking. _When did the situation become so desperate that children feel the ‘optimal choice’ is to send other children out into a war zone?_  
  
Dismissing the question as the distraction it was, she focused her attention on the task at hand. The PRT ENE could weather this storm, but it was going to take some delicate handling. This debriefing was but one part of a larger strategy, and it wasn’t over yet.  
  
“So,” she said, pinning Triumph with a grim stare. “What, precisely, happened when you dispatched Aegis and Vista to observe and report on the Empire-related disturbance? In your own words…”

 

*  *  *  *  *

 

“So, as you can see from the report,” Emily concluded briskly, “while the incident was deeply unfortunate, we are in the process of taking steps to ensure that it won’t happen again. Bringing the Wards more directly under PRT supervision will-“  
  
“I read the report,” Beth Grant broke in, “as have a number of my colleagues.” Emily tried not to grit her teeth at the interruption. Some of her irritation was ameliorated, though, when the woman continued, “In general, the Youth Guard is provisionally in favour of the PRT’s plan to bring the Wards in house.” She gave a brief, slightly crooked smile. “There didn’t seem much point in making you reiterate all your arguments just for the sake of it. I’m sure there are a great many other matters that require your attention, after all.”  
  
“Quite,” Emily said, returning Grant’s smile. “In that case, if I can count on the support of the Youth Guard in this area, we should be able to begin implementing the changes as early as-“  
  
“Let me just stop you there, Emily.”  
  
_Does the woman have no manners?_  
  
“Is there a problem?” Emily asked. Despite her annoyance at both the interruption and the informality, she kept her expression pleasant. Well, as pleasant as it ever got; she knew her limitations in that regard.  
  
“Some concerns,” Grant said. “And a few stipulations. The first of which is a permanent Youth Guard presence on site.”  
  
That was… irritating, but not entirely unexpected.  
  
“I’m sure that won’t be necessary,” Emily began, without much hope of success.  
  
“With all due respect,” Grant said, sounding anything but respectful, “it is. It has been for some time. And the only reason we haven’t had one before now is the game of bureaucratic shuffleboard that you and the Protectorate have been playing with us. And because somehow, miraculously, despite the many, many systemic issues with the Brockton Bay Wards programme, you’ve so far managed to avoid any outright disasters on my watch. But you know, and I know, that despite what it says in that report…” She tapped the folder on the desk in front of her for emphasis. “If Hookwolf had hit Vista, rather than Aegis, her parents would likely be holding a funeral right about now.” Emily had been drawing breath to protest, but unexpectedly found the wind taken out of her sails. “In any case,” Grant continued, fixing her with a gimlet-eyed stare that would have done any of her old COs proud, “you know, and I know, that I don’t have to ask. Not now. And I don’t think you want me to force the issue.”  
  
Well… she wasn’t wrong there. Still, the game was far from over yet.  
  
Emily regarded her opponent thoughtfully.  
  
“What other requests does the Youth Guard have?”  
  
It was time for the real negotiation to begin.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This sequence was my attempt to answer the question raised by [this ](https://forums.spacebattles.com/posts/22116637/)Word of Author.
> 
> If direct supervision and management of the Wards is normally a responsibility of the head of the Protectorate, why is that not the case in Brockton Bay?
> 
> The Wards aren’t based in the Protectorate HQ, but in the PRT HQ, and the only person we see acting in a supervisory capacity is Director Piggot, when she reprimands them after the bank job. (Incidentally, this doesn’t quite seem to square up with the part in Legend’s interlude where he mentions that Deputy Director Renick, not Director Piggot, is the one officially in charge of the Wards. However, I have no problems picturing Director Piggot as taking a somewhat hands-on role in Wards management, even if on paper they might fall under the authority of the deputy director.)
> 
> It’s not implausible that different PRT departments have their own way of doing things, and Brockton Bay is certainly eccentric in other ways. (For example, they have their own unique designation — East Northeast — rather than the numbers given to other departments.) The question becomes, therefore, were the Brockton Bay Wards always under the direct authority of the PRT, or was that a change made after the department was established?
> 
> I went through the relevant parts of Worm, I checked Word of God and I couldn’t find a definitive answer either way. So, for the purposes of Mixed Feelings, I decided that it was something that changed. Specifically, it was a change Director Piggot instigated. There are a few potential reasons why she might do such a thing. Control is the obvious one, and she does seem to me like the kind of person who wants to keep a firm hand on the reins. Status is another. Last, but not least, I can see her doing it because she genuinely believes it’s the best thing for the Wards. After all, in her interlude she does consistently refer to them as children.
> 
> After the ‘why’ of it, the next thing to address was the ‘how.’
> 
> As director of the PRT ENE, Director Piggot could presumably simply order it done, but there could well be political ramifications. Plus, any kind of bureaucratic change will often meet resistance at an institutional level. (Why fix it if it isn’t broken? We’ve always done it that way. Change is scary! And so on, and so forth.) Basically, she needed a reason. Hence, an incident that would give her both an excuse and the support of the Youth Guard. For example, a couple of Wards having a run in with Hookwolf.
> 
> (Incidentally, this is the incident in which Vista got the cut on her chest that she stitched up herself in the shower. No one knows that she was actually hurt, of course, but it was still enough give the director an opening.)
> 
> It wouldn’t take much to conclude that a combination of insufficient training and too much pressure was at fault. That Wards were both inadequately supervised and discouraged from asking questions of and/or seeking advice from their superiors when they encountered difficult situations. And if there were systemic problems with the Wards programme, then the logical way to address it is to bring them under closer PRT supervision, as is the usual protocol.
> 
> I suspect that Armsmaster might, on some level, be glad to be freed of the responsibility. After all, if he doesn’t have to oversee the Wards, that’s more time he has for tinkering and self-improvement. The slight against his capabilities would undoubtedly sting a little, however, and he’d probably have to fight against the change just to protect his reputation. By his own admission, though, he’s not great at office politics, so of course Director Piggot got her way.
> 
> I initially planned this sequence as part of Emily’s interlude because the central theme of the chapter was about her getting exactly what she wanted, but with complications. She wanted the Wards in-house; she got the Wards in-house. Congratulations, Emily, you’re now responsible for herding a group of, in your words ‘superpowered children.’ Ain’t it grand? She wanted a Ward to respect her authority and, well, you know how that turned out.
> 
> I decided to cut the scenes because, in the end, I didn’t think they added enough to the chapter to justify the extra word count. Emily seeing her interactions with Beth Grant as a negotiation was covered better in the present day scene, I thought. Her reprimanding a Ward was covered more succinctly in the Shadow Stalker scene, and that interaction is much more relevant to certain upcoming plot strands than the one between her and Triumph. However, I’m reasonably pleased with how they turned out, and I consider the events in them canon for the purposes of Mixed Feelings, so I thought I might as well tidy them up and turn them into an omake.
> 
> This author’s note brought to you by the letters ‘R for ramble’ and ‘O for overthinking.’


	9. Sisters

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Director Emily Piggot's older sister calls to check up on her.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A deleted scene from Interlude 3: Emily.

“And you’re absolutely sure you’re safe down there?”  
  
On the surface, Grace’s tone was brisk, almost like the question was merely a courtesy, but Emily knew her sister well enough to hear the undertones of true concern. She could picture her expression as clearly as if the two of them were sitting across from each other, rather than being on either end of a phone call. Grace would have the faintest of frown lines creasing her forehead, her lips ever-so-slightly pursed. And her hands, of course, would be in constant motion. Folding laundry, perhaps, or preparing food for her family.  
  
Or, if it was one of **those** conversations, perhaps stripping and cleaning one of her guns.  
  
“I’m perfectly safe,” Emily replied, rolling her eyes. Dryly, she added, “Believe it or not, the situation is not so dire that a PRT director — least of all a crippled one — has to personally go into the field.” After all this time, the reflexive surge of bitterness that brought was barely a blip on her mental landscape; an old, familiar friend. “We have troops for that kind of thing.”  
  
“There’s no need for sarcasm,” Grace sniffed. “And don’t roll your eyes at me like I’m being ridiculous. As far as I can tell, Brockton Bay is going to hell in a handcart right now, so I think a little concern is more than justified.” There was a smile in her voice when she addd, “Besides, you’re my baby sister; it’s my prerogative to worry.”  
  
“Brockton Bay was always going to hell in a handcart,” Emily muttered, “and you’re only three years older than I am, Gracie.” She shifted a little on her sofa, trying to find a position that would ease the persistent, nagging pain in her lower back. Tethered to the dialysis machine as she was, she couldn’t move all that much, but it did seem to help a little. “Anyway,” she continued, when it was clear that Grace wasn’t going to be provoked by that hated nickname, “what makes you think I was rolling my eyes?”  
  
“I’m not going to dignify that with a response,” Grace said, and Emily felt her face soften into an almost-grin at how much that overly stiff tone made her sound like their mother. Not that Grace would have thanked her for the comparison. “Seriously, though,” Grace continued, more softly. “I know it’s not the most stable of cities at the best of times, but right now it looks like you’re in the middle of an all-out gang war. It seems like a pretty dangerous place for anyone to be.”  
  
Emily sighed loudly.  
  
“You, of all people, should know better than to believe everything you read,” she said, reproachfully. “It isn’t an all-out gang war.” Not yet, anyway. Although, if things continued as they had been… “A certain amount of friction is to be expected in a place like Brockton Bay.” Especially with its resident parahumans stirring the pot. “Things will settle down again soon enough. They always do.”  
  
Even if some of the thinkers they’d consulted had made a few vague pronouncements that could be interpreted to mean that things would likely get worse before they got better. Which she might have taken with a grain of salt if it wasn’t for the fact that some of her investigators were suggesting much the same thing.  
  
“And you, of all people, should know that I don’t have to believe what I read,” Grace retorted with some asperity. “I might be more or less out of the game these days, but I still have my sources. And from what they’ve told me, your current troubles seem substantially more serious than a few gang members getting slightly rowdy.”  
  
“Who’s telling you that?” Emily asked, only falling short of a demand because she knew what Grace would say in response.  
  
Sure enough, “A journalist never reveals her sources.”  
  
“Even one who’s out of the game?” Emily asked slyly.  
  
“I said more or less,” Grace replied, a touch snippily. “I still keep my hand in.”  
  
Emily frowned. “Are you working on something now? I thought you and Andrew agreed that both of you would stay clear of war zones, Endbringer cults, Endbringer fights, organised crime, assassinations and terrorist plots until your children were at least in college.”  
  
“Just one or two bits and pieces. Nothing major. And nothing that’s likely to bother Andrew.” The evasive answer made Emily’s ears prick up, but before she could start seriously asking questions, Grace was already continuing with what was a blatant attempt to change the subject. “Anyway, speaking of the children, it’s been a while since you last came up for a visit. I’m sure Gavin and Elaine would love to see their Aunt Em again.”  
  
Emily privately doubted that. Her nephew and niece had always been polite enough to her — Grace would surely have had something to say about it if they hadn’t been — but, well, they were still children. Apparently shared genetics weren’t enough for her to overcome her feelings on that score.  
  
All in all, it was probably just as well she’d never felt the inclination to have any children of her own.  
  
And the less said about what her darling sister encouraged her children to call Emily, the better.  
  
 _Aunt Em, indeed…_  
  
(Honestly, if there was any character from Oz that Emily even remotely identified with, it would have been Cap’n Bill Weedles, but she knew better than to say that. Best just to let Gracie’s little jest pass without comment.)  
  
“I can’t really get away at the moment,” she said, which wasn’t untrue. “Not with things here being the way they are.”  
  
She eyed her laptop guiltily, conscious of the fact that she’d been in the middle of reading through the latest batch of reports when her phone rang. Trying to type as quietly as she could, she woke it up and logged back in.  
  
“I do hope I’m not keeping you from your work,” Grace said dryly, because of course she noticed anyway. She’d always had sharp hearing.  
  
“You’re not,” Emily, replied, matching her tone. “I’m multitasking.”  
  
“You work too hard.”  
  
Emily snorted in disbelief, unable to help herself. “Pot and kettle, Gracie,” she murmured. “Pot and kettle.”  
  
“Okay, fine, you’ve got me there,” Grace admitted ruefully. She paused for a moment, and then matter-of-factly asked, “Do you need me to let you get back to it?”  
  
 _Probably,_ Emily thought with an inward sigh. And it wasn’t like Grace would be offended. _But, on the other hand…_  
  
“Not just yet,” she said, promising herself that she’d get through everything tonight if it was the last thing she did. “Besides,” she continued, her tone sly, “you haven’t told me about those ‘bits and pieces’ you’re working on yet…”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> When I was considering what aspects of Emily I wanted to show in her interlude, it occurred to me that canon never really showed how she related to her family. From Interlude 16.x, we know she has a sister, and Interlude 13.y mentions a nephew called Gavin, who was apparently named for Gawain, knight of the round table. (Of course, if I'd remembered that when naming Throttle, I'd probably have called him something different, but never mind. Once again, Mixed Feelings proves not to adhere to the 'One Steve Rule,' but that's not necessarily a bad thing.)
> 
> I think this scene is the one where I ended having to flat-out make up the most details, as there wasn't that much to extrapolate from. Canon doesn't even tell us if Gavin is actually Emily's sister's son, or if he's the child of another, unmentioned sibling.
> 
> In any event, my thought was that a scene in which a concerned Grace (a name I chose based on stats showing common names of girls with sisters called Emily) called to check up on her sister could kill two birds with one stone. First, it would show Emily in her role as sister. Second, it would let me put describe the current situation in Brockton Bay, filling in some details that Astrid simply doesn't have access to. In practice, though, trying to include more detail spoiled the flow of the scene, and made it feel a little too expositiony for my liking. And, without that information, I didn't feel it contributed enough to the chapter to justify including it as-is. Plus, it felt a little divorced from the other scenes in a way that weakened the overall theme. So I ended up cutting it.


	10. What Renick Did on his Vacation (AKA Medical Leave)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Director Piggot has a chat with Deputy Director Renick upon his return to work.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A deleted scene from Interlude 3: Emily

“Welcome back, Ian,” Emily said, nodding at Deputy Director Renick as he took a seat across from her.  
  
“Thanks,” he said warmly. “It’s good to be back.”  
  
She arched an eyebrow. “Really?”  
  
“Definitely.” Ian’s lips quirked up into his usual affable grin, his eyes dancing with amusement. “You know me; I like to keep busy. Lazing around at home was driving me completely up the wall.” Leaning forward slightly, he lowered his voice to a conspiratorial murmur. “Just between you and me, I think having me under foot was driving Linda up the wall, too.”  
  
Amused, Emily shook her head. In a mildly chiding tone, she said, “You were hardly lazing around. Or didn’t you think I’d notice that you’d finished up those evaluations, among other things?”  
  
Not that she was complaining. Medical leave or not, the PRT could ill afford to be without its deputy director right now. If he believed he was fit for work — and assuming the doctors hadn’t raised any particularly strenuous objections — she was hardly going to stand in his way.  
  
Ian shrugged, the motion a little stiff, lacking his usual, easy grace.  
  
“Once the concussion faded, there was no real reason for me not to get on with things.” He lifted his arm up, tapping lightly on the cast that extended from his hand up to just below his elbow. “Even if this thing really does a number on my typing speed.”  
  
“I don’t suppose your accident has made you reconsider your addiction to jumping from ridiculous heights?” she asked dryly.  
  
“Not a chance,” Ian said instantly, much as she’d suspected he would. “Anyway, I wasn’t technically jumping from something when this happened.” His grin widened. “I was climbing up something in preparation for jumping off it.”  
  
“Of course you were,” Emily sighed. Glancing at the clock, she judged that they’d spent enough time on pleasantries. Briskly, she asked, “Have you been brought up to speed on recent events?”  
  
“I have,” he said, his expression turning grave. “It’s a shame what happened with Bet squad. A damn shame. Shaw and Fisher were good men.”  
  
“Yes,” Emily agreed quietly. A little standoffish, maybe, with respect to some of the other squads; a little gung ho on occasion. But, on the whole, good men. Good soldiers. And now they were dead.  
  
_Collateral damage._  
  
She tried to push away the thought, to ignore the bitter taste in her mouth and the bolus of anger long-since turned ice-cold. The effort was more or less a success. Then again, she’d had a hell of a lot of practice.  
  
“Any word yet on when the investigation’s likely to conclude?” Ian asked, not sounding like he was holding out much hope of an affirmative answer.  
  
Emily shook her head. “It’ll take as long as it takes,” she said.  
  
She would honestly be surprised if the investigators found (or, at least, reported) any evidence of negligence on the part of either the Protectorate capes or the PRT officers. Especially the former. If she was being fair, though — and she did try to be fair, despite her occasional inclination otherwise — that was because everyone involved in that clusterfuck almost certainly had done the best they could with the information they had. Even the capes.  
  
It was a sad fact of life that you could do everything right and still lose people.  
  
“And the investigation into Gimel squad?” Ian asked.  
  
“No word as yet, but I imagine it should be over fairly quickly.”  
  
“It certainly seems fairly straightforward,” Ian said. “As I can tell from the AAR, their actions were pretty much by the book. I don’t think there was any way they could have known the prisoners were suffering medical difficulties.”  
  
“I agree,” Emily said. “But the pathologist who performed should be reporting his findings to Investigations tomorrow. That should shed some light on the matter.”  
  
Hopefully, Dr Morgan could explain how four putative parahumans had gone into confoam healthy enough to smack around a squad of armed and armoured PRT troopers and come out a few minutes later stone cold dead.  
  
It was certainly something she’d like to know.  
  
They discussed various other bits and pieces that had come up during Ian’s absence, more to make sure they were on the same page about who was doing what than because he really needed the briefing. Ian liked to keep up with things, even while on medical leave. It was a trait of which Emily thoroughly approved.  
  
“And, last but not least,” Emily said, “there’s the matter of our new Ward.”  
  
“Talos, right.” Ian sat up a little straighter in his chair, regarding Emily thoughtfully. For her part, she had to hold back a wince at hearing the girl’s new cape name; an unwelcome reminder of what had happened on Saturday night. And of the inevitable consequences of those events now hanging like the sword of Damocles over her head. “I was planning on introducing myself to her later,” Ian continued. “I’ve looked over her file, of course, but is there anything else I should know before I talk to her?”  
  
Where should she even start?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, I have a confession to make. When I first started writing Mixed Feelings I completely forgot about the existence of Deputy Director Renick, largely because he's only barely mentioned in canon. According to Legend in 14.y, he's officially in charge of the Wards ENE (see quote below), but to my knowledge we never actually see him interact with them on-screen.
> 
> \------  
> “No, don’t act like I’m going to say something bad. The Deputy Director in charge of the Wards, I can’t quite remember his name, he had some glowing praise for your ability to engage with the public.”
> 
> “Engage with the public? I don’t remember doing much of that.”
> 
> “Something about speeches to other youths at school?”
> 
> “Oh. That wasn’t a big deal.”
> 
> “The guy who’s rating your performance seems to think it was. Can’t quite place his name, the suits sort of start to blur in with one another-”
> 
> “Deputy Director Renick,” Kid Win supplied.  
> \------
> 
> In the Wards interlude following the bank job, it's Director Piggot who dresses them down, and takes Kid Win off for a disciplinary hearing regarding his use of the alternator cannon. Renick is conspicuous by his absence. My way of reconciling this was to decide that, although Renick is officially responsible for supervising the Wards, Piggot sometimes takes more of a hands on role. It certainly seems to fit her character. Based on what we see in canon -- including her own, somewhat poor opinion of her ability to relate to children -- it makes sense to me that she would be the one to deal with disciplinary matters. And so, as she mused in the last chapter of Mixed Feelings, 'He was the carrot and she was the stick, and she was perfectly fine with that. Preferred it, honestly.'
> 
> An interlude from Director Piggot's point of view seemed like as good a place as any to introduce the deputy director, so I planned out a scene involving a conversation between the two of them. I figured it would also give me the opportunity to add in some details about the current state of affairs in the PRT and in Brockton Bay generally.
> 
> As, 'Sir Not Appearing Onstage' in Worm itself, Renick is pretty much a cipher personality-wise, so I was free to essentially treat him as an OC. I also had to figure out a reason for not even having a passing mention of him in Mixed Feelings so far. (Although I did cheat and go back to edit in a reference to him when Director Piggot answered Astrid's question about the chain of command.) Starting with that, I decided that he was on medical leave for non-work-related injuries. That starting point ultimately led me to Ian Renick, workaholic and extreme sports enthusiast, but otherwise chill dude. He's still a work in progress, but that gave me enough to start writing him.
> 
> I was pleased with the scene in general, but with the word count of the interlude spiralling out of control, I had to start looking for parts to cut. This one ended up on the chopping block for a couple of reasons. Firstly, Renick isn't intended to be an especially prominent character. The most important thing about him is likely to be how Astrid relates to him, and that doesn't even come up in this scene. (Even that aspect of it isn't necessarily something I need to show on screen in any great detail, as I think it's pretty obvious by this point what Astrid's first impression of a male authority figure is likely to be.) Secondly, the conversation doesn't show all that much about Emily herself -- the main point of the interlude -- and the information revealed about the investigations into Bet and Gimel squads is going to be covered in more detail in a later chaper.


	11. The Price of PR

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A PR rep delivers her verdict on the newest Ward's debut

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A deleted scene from Interlude 3: Emily

“Well,” Petra Price began, in a deceptively chipper tone, “considering she was thrown in at the deep end with pretty much zero prep, it… could have gone worse. A whole hell of a lot worse, in fact.”  
  
“I’ve read the reports,” Emily reminded her, fighting the urge to grit her teeth. “I’m aware of how things could have gone.”  
  
On the one hand, she respected Price’s propensity for plain speaking. On the other, a small, petty part of her couldn’t quite help reflecting — whining, really — about how unfair this was. She hadn’t made the call; hadn’t even known about it until the operation was over and done with. Why should she have to weather the full force of the crisis management consultant’s particular brand of upbeat sarcasm?  
  
Almost as soon as that thought formed, though, she dismissed it again. It was her ass in the big chair, after all; one way or another, the buck stopped with her. And, as had been drilled into her time and time again during boot camp, ignorance was no excuse.  
  
“I’m not sure you are,” Price said, her lips curving in what Emily privately referred to as her ‘fuck you’ smile, steel glinting in her eyes. “You only get one chance to make a first impression. And with the level of attention people pay to capes, that goes double for our heroes. There are steps that people like me can take to fix a PR disaster, up to a point, but there’s always going to be some residual tarnish. Short of a complete rebrand, anyway, and those are a royal pain in the ass for everyone involved. Better by far not to have the disaster in the first place. That’s why it’s so vital for our capes to make their debuts under controlled circumstances. These… weren’t.”  
  
_You don’t need to tell me that!_ Emily thought with no small amount of frustration.  
  
What she said aloud, though, was, “I realise that the situation was far from ideal.”  
  
Petra narrowed her eyes slightly.  
  
“That’s one way of putting it. Still, like I said, from a PR point of view it didn’t go horribly. Talos kept control of her powers, did what she was told, mostly kept her mouth shut, and managed to hold off on falling over until she was out of sight of the public. Oh, and she saved some lives. Let’s not forget that part.”  
  
“Yes, let’s not,” Emily murmured dryly.  
  
She was reasonably certain that Price was messing with her. Reasonably certain. But there always was that little, nagging doubt at the back of her mind. Maybe the woman really did value making a good impression on civilians over protecting them; maybe that was true of the PR department as a whole. It was probably unfair, but still. It was a thought she could never quite shake completely.  
  
Price glanced down at the tablet in her hand, nodding to herself.  
  
“Only the locals really seem to have paid attention so far, unsurprisingly, but what buzz there is seems to be largely positive.” She paused for a moment, looking thoughtful. “I realise it probably sounds like I’m contradicting myself here, but I think it’s probably worth moving up her official introduction a little so we can capitalise on that.” Her voice took on a wry, self-deprecating note, as she added, “Even if Image and Costuming are probably going to call for my head on a platter.”  
  
Reluctantly amused by the last part, Emily considered the suggestion. It was technically jumping the gun, but in light of Saturday’s events, that was surely a moot point. There were just a couple of sticking points.  
  
“I don’t have a problem with it in principle,” Emily said cautiously. “But she will have to complete the core training before she goes out on patrol.” Not that she was anticipating much problem there, given the girl’s progress so far. The ‘how to deal with the public’ side of things would be more of an issue, but hopefully not an insurmountable one. “And she has to be cleared by Psych before she’s allowed out in costume at all.”  
  
“Of course,” Price agreed readily. Too readily? It was hard to say.  
  
“Plus, the Youth Guard are bound to have opinions on the matter.”  
  
Just like they undoubtedly had ‘opinions’ about Saturday’s events. As Grant would surely make clear to her during their meeting. But that was a problem for later, not for now.  
  
By her own reckoning, she did a good job of keeping the distaste from her voice, but amusement shone in Price’s eyes anyway.  
  
“No doubt. But I can’t imagine they’ll object too strenuously. After all, it’s not like we’re talking about sending Talos into a combat situation, just getting her brand out there a little. A scripted public-facing event, perhaps, or a quiet, supervised patrol or two in a safe part of town.”  
  
Emily was willing to bet real money that Talos would be less stressed by a combat situation than by dealing with the general public, but she kept that thought to herself.  
  
“Indeed.” She hoped this was the correct course of action. Price did have a point, though, and it wasn’t like Emily had a problem with getting her newest Ward acclimatised to being in the public eye sooner rather than later. If Psych thought Talos could handle it, everything else was just logistics. Even if… “Image and Costuming are definitely going to complain,” she murmured, unable to keep herself from giving Price a somewhat jaundiced look.  
  
The woman seemed undaunted.  
  
“In my experience, they’re always complaining about something,” she said. “Not that they don’t have cause in this case, mind you, but if they give you too much trouble, feel free to point them in my direction.”  
  
“I’ll bear that in mind,” Emily said dryly. She gave Price a thoughtful look. “You’re taking something of a risk here, aren’t you?”  
  
“Am I?” Price asked, her carelessly cheerful demeanour and voice giving absolutely nothing away.  
  
“Yes,” Emily said bluntly. “I understand that you volunteered to take point on Saturday, despite the less than ideal circumstances. And now you’re going to be on record as recommending a course of action that could be considered… bold.”  
  
“Bold, is it?” Price actually smiled with what looked like genuine amusement. “First of all,” she said dryly, “volunteered is… overstating the case somewhat.”  
  
“I see,” Emily murmured, intrigued.  
  
Alas, Price showed no inclination to expand on that, continuing with, “Second, while I could try to distance myself, I’m involved now. And once I start something, I see it through.”  
  
_Even if you do step away, I suppose it’ll still look pretty bad for you if Talos crashes and burns,_ Emily thought cynically. _Whereas if you can take credit for her success…_  
  
Emily knew that Price was ambitious. It was something she understood; respected, even. Just as long as she realised that Emily’s people weren’t merely playing pieces in the game of her career.  
  
“Just out of curiosity,” Emily asked, as if it was a merely a tangentially related aside, “how does working for the PRT compare to your previous career in DC?”  
  
Price didn’t so much as blink at the question, but then Emily wouldn’t have expected her to.  
  
“Honestly, I prefer it,” she said brightly. “Dealing with politicians is one thing, but dealing with capes is a whole different level of challenge.” Holding Emily’s gaze, she leaned forward slightly, as if confiding a secret. “Fortunately for me, I love a challenge.”  
  
“Well, if it’s a challenge you want, you’re in the right place,” Emily murmured. She took a breath. “Okay, how about you walk me through those numbers…”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is the last of the deleted scenes I'll be posting for this chapter. There were others I cut out, but I plan on repurposing those for later chapters.
> 
> I think I might have mentioned this before somewhere in the thread, but I'd plotted out (and even started writing) a sequence that involved Astrid meeting with the Branding people and beginning the process of developing her cape costume and identity. This was originally slated to become Aphenphosmphobia 3.13. The trouble was, it didn't really show anything new about Astrid or advance her character development in any significant way, and it certainly didn't advance the story as a whole. So I dropped it and moved straight to Astrid's first field deployment. As much as part of me mourns the fact that I didn't get to develop a whole new posse of characters, dropping it was definitely the right decision. Maybe it's something I'll polish up and post as an omake at some point; maybe not. Time will tell, I guess.
> 
> (Incidentally, if anyone's interested in stories that do a good job of portraying the Image/PR/Costuming process, and the people who work there, I recommend you take a look at [Tabloid](http://archiveofourown.org/works/8603173/chapters/19729273), by babylonsheep and [Defiant](https://forums.spacebattles.com/threads/defiant-worm-emma-centric-alt-power.432302/) (specifically chapter [5.2](https://forums.spacebattles.com/posts/30360979/)), by Twei.)
> 
> In any event, I figured that even under normal circumstances, a PR representative would likely be on scene when a new Protectorate or Ward member makes their debut. Just in case. (Although that's obviously not a foolproof way of heading off problems; witness how Clockblocker successfully derailed his introduction to publicly declare his own choice of cape name.) Given the irregularity of Astrid's first costumed foray, though, the locals decided to call in one of the big guns. Someone used to being at the thin end of the wedge, so to speak. Someone used to having to think on their feet to stave off disaster. Someone to take the blame if things did go awry, perhaps. Enter Petra Price, 'PR specialist,' AKA crisis management consultant, AKA one of the people who's normally called in after the faecal matter has impacted the rotating ventilation device.
> 
> Not that Astrid was aware of any of this, of course.
> 
> I figure that every PRT department has their own PR team, but the crisis management consultants are more of a peripatetic group. Essentially they're roving troubleshooters, going where they're needed. Think something along the lines of Olivia Pope's team from the TV series Scandal, but less tied to a particular city and focused on capes, rather than politicians. (Now, that could make an interesting premise for a story. But I digress.) Obviously, Petra had to be close enough to Brockton Bay at the time to make sending her there a feasible proposition, but I don't think that's stretching the bounds of coincidence too much. Given Brockton Bay's particular circumstances, I can well believe that the PRT might want to have crisis consultants within easy reach of the place. And there would have been some time between Lysowski making the call and Astrid actually heading out.
> 
> When I was considering scenes to include in Emily's interlude, I thought it might be interesting to show Petra's perspective on how things went, while also adding in some worldbuilding details regarding PR for capes. Unfortunately, the tone didn't seem to quite fit with the rest of the chapter, and I felt like there was a little too much overlap between this scene (Petra complains about Astrid being sent out into the field before she was ready; Emily doesn't disagree while having to defend Lysowski's decision) and the one with Ms Grant (Beth complains about... you get the idea). Plus, when I tried to add in the worldbuilding details about the crisis management consultants, it came across as really expositiony, and without them the scene just didn't add all that much. It certainly didn't really show anything about Emily that the scene with Ms Grant didn't. So I ended up cutting it.


	12. Promises

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Two Arcadia students discuss the new girl (a canon omake)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Follows on from 4.01

Meera gave Lin a sidelong glance. Lin didn't notice, being too busy frowning in the direction of Astrid's rapidly departing figure and chewing on her lower lip. She did that when she was worried, or nervous.

_Well, that won't do..._

"So..." Meera said, drawing on her vocal training to pitch the word just right; a low, breathy, drawn-out sound.

"Huh?" Lin looked at her, blinking in confusion.

Meera held her gaze for a moment before giving her best wicked smile. "The more the merrier? Is there something you want to share with me?"

She could see the very instant that the penny dropped, Lin's eyes widening and her mouth falling open ever-so-slightly.

_Lin really does have the most expressive face._

Right now, she was frantically shaking her head, hair flying every which way with the force of her denial.

"Oh God! No, I didn't... You know I didn't mean it like that."

"Are you sure?" Meera murmured teasingly, drifting closer. "You did give her your number, after all. And don't think I didn't see you checking out her biceps earlier."

After spluttering endearingly for a moment or two, Lin huffed out an annoyed breath.

"You're just trying to provoke me," she accused.

Meera shrugged. "Guilty. But at least you're not frowning any more."

Lin looked as if she was about to say something, but then she just sighed softly, leaning into Meera, who obligingly wrapped her arms around her. Luckily, Lin didn't seem to notice that she checked first to make sure Astrid wasn't looking their way.

"She obviously needs to talk to someone," she mumbled into Meera's shoulder. "Or, she will. You remember what it was like for you."

"I remember." She didn't bother controlling her tone and inflection this time. Or, rather, she actively stopped the ingrained habits from kicking in; allowed her voice to roughen around the edges. "Just... be careful, alright?" She hesitated a moment as she thought about how best to phrase what she wanted to say, eventually settling on, "That girl has a lot of anger."

Predictably, Lin assured her that everything was fine, that she was overreacting, and that of course it was perfectly understandable for Astrid to be a little ill at ease, considering. Meera let herself be mollified in return for Lin's promise that she wouldn't push too hard. That, she supposed, would have to do. At least for now.

_But know this,_ she promised silently. _If she hurts you, I'll hurt_ ** _her_** _._

And she wouldn't have to resort to violence to do it.


	13. Concerned Questions

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Ms Grant drives Astrid back to the PRT building after her first day at Arcadia

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A deleted scene from 4.02

“So, how was your first day at Arcadia?”

Ms Grant’s question startled me out of my thoughts which, honestly, I was kind of glad about. They hadn’t exactly been pleasant thoughts. I closed the text book that I’d been completely failing to read and took a moment to give myself the chance to consider my words carefully, crafting a response that would convey just the right impression while giving away absolutely nothing of my inner turmoil.

“Fine.”

I… really sucked at words.

I glanced in Ms Grant’s direction, but her gaze was on the road, just as it should have been. That was one advantage of being in a car, I supposed: she couldn’t easily scrutinise my face and body language for tells. The downside, of course, was that I couldn’t get away from her interrogation.

Sorry, her ‘concerned questions.’

“Is that it?” she asked after a moment, her tone gently encouraging. “Just fine?”

I shrugged, and wished I hadn’t. Goddammit Lance! I’d only just started getting used to not being damaged anymore. (Which had probably been a mistake, really. There was no way in hell that state was going to last.) Still, it could have been worse. At least this time I only had a few bruises and scrapes to worry about, rather than welts and fucking fractures.

(I hoped Lance had got the cuts I’d given him properly taken care of. They mostly hadn’t been too deep, but infection was always a risk. He knew how to look after himself, though. He’d had a lot of practice at assessing damage, just like I had. He’d be fine. He would.)

(Not that I cared.)

(I wondered uneasily what, if anything, he’d told Dad about what had caused his new cuts and bruises.)

“Arcadia is much better maintained than Winslow,” I said, when the pause stretched long enough that I felt like I had to say something. “I didn’t even see any graffiti anywhere.”

It had honestly been kind of weird, although it had taken a little while before I realised just what had been making me so antsy. No gang tags or colours. Nothing to indicate who’d staked claim to which bits of the school and its grounds. No outward indications of where people’s allegiances lay. At least, none that I recognised. It threw off my threat assessment something fierce, even after I reminded myself that Arcadia wasn’t Winslow, and that when the principal said ‘zero tolerance,’ he apparently both meant and enforced it.

I wasn’t naive enough to think that meant violence and turf wars didn’t happen, of course. It just meant that people had to be careful to keep such things on the down low.

Plus, there were plenty of ways to fuck with people other than by beating the shit out of them.

(On balance, I generally preferred the beatings. I knew how to deal with those. The other stuff… not so much.)

“I should think not.” Ms Grant sounded affronted by the very idea of Arcadia’s hallowed halls being sullied by graffiti. I wondered what she’d think about the fact that it was sullied by… other things. Not that I was planning on bringing up that particular revelation with her. She was probably too liberal to understand how fucked up it was. “What about the classes?” she continued, after navigating us through a particularly tricky junction.

“They were okay,” I said, trying to keep the apprehension out of my voice. “I think it’s going to be a steep learning curve, but I’m sure I’ll be able to catch up.”

I hoped.

No, I would, I had to. No matter how hard I had to work, I absolutely couldn’t afford to fail.

Even if it seemed like I had significantly underestimated the academic differences between Arcadia and Winslow. And even though I had the Wards courses to worry about on top of my school work and physical training. Oh, and the powers training. Plus all the shit I was going to need to learn to make the most effective use of my powers.

“Just remember what I said this morning,” Ms Grant told me, her face creasing into a frown. “It’s not the end of the world if it takes you a little while to get up to speed.”

“I remember,” I assured her. Accept it, not a fucking chance, but I did remember. That much, I could promise with a clear conscience.

“Hmm.” Maybe it was my unease talking, but I thought she sound she made was vaguely sceptical. Excuses and justifications clustered behind my teeth, but I swallowed them back down. Saying anything more would only have made me look guilty. “What about the other students?”

“They seem… nice,” I offered cautiously. I hesitated a moment, and then added, “Victoria Dallon invited me to eat lunch with her. And some of her friends.”

“And did you?”

I couldn’t help giving Ms Grant a sharp look at that. I couldn’t have sworn to it, but I thought she seemed amused.

“Yes,” I said.

“Good.”

_Was it?_ I wondered. Sure, Victoria had been lovely, but Amy was the Bitch Supreme. And then Meera and Lin, as friendly and welcoming as they’d seemed, had accused me of being… abnormal. Worse, they were quite probably deviant themselves, and they didn’t seem to see anything wrong with it.

I was pretty fucking sure that ‘good’ wouldn’t have been the word Dad would have chosen.

Shit, if he knew the kinds of people I’d been associating with…

I had to suppress a shiver.

“Is something wrong?” Ms Grant asked, once more proving that she was way too perceptive for my own good.

“No,” I lied, searching for an excuse. “Just a little chilly.”

“I’ll turn the heating up,” she said, suiting the action to the words. “You should have said something sooner if you were cold.”

“I wasn’t, before. It was just a sudden chill.”

I hoped she didn’t think I was weak. I hoped she didn’t realise I was lying my ass off.

“And that’s all it was? There’s nothing bothering you?”

Hellfire and damnation!

“No,” I lied again. I searched my mind for a distraction, and actually found one. “But… there is something I’d like to ask, if you don’t mind.”

“Astrid, you don’t need to request permission to ask me a question,” she said matter-of-factly. “You’re always welcome to ask me things. I’m not going to change my mind about that.”

That remained to be seen. But I’d take her words at face value for now.

“Some of the people at lunch were talking,” I began, trying to sound like this didn’t matter; like this wasn’t a subject that had been tying my stomach up in knots more or less ever since the Bitch Supreme had spat that particular poisoned dart my way. “And I just wondered…” I took a breath, resisting the urge to just tell her it didn’t matter. “If a boy gives a girl jewellery as a birthday present, does it… mean anything? Hypothetically.”

“Hypothetically?” she repeated after a moment, her tone neutral.

“Hypothetically.” I resisted the urge to fiddle with the jewellery I hadn’t gotten around to taking off yet, carefully folding my hands in my lap so they couldn’t betray me.

“That’s a potentially complicated question. It might help if I had some context.”

I shifted a little in my seat, trying to get comfortable.

“There isn’t any,” I muttered. “Any more, I mean. It’s basically just what I said.”

“I see.” She was quiet for a moment, and then, “Well, what do you think it might mean?”

I heard Amy’s voice again; her stupid, ridiculous, utterly nonsensical claim, and it was suddenly a struggle not to huddle in on myself.

“I don’t know. Nothing, really. I mean, it doesn’t have to mean anything. It’s just a birthday present.”

“Hypothetically?”

I tried not to twitch. Despite the uncomfortable feeling that I wasn’t fooling anyone, I did my level best to keep up the charade.

“Yeah. Hypothetically. I mean, it doesn’t have to mean he…” (wants me) “likes her or anything.”

This was stupid. I was stupid for even bringing this up. Carlos had never done or said anything to suggest he might want me the way Amy had so spitefully suggested he did. I wasn’t attractive or feminine or anything like that, so there was no reason on earth why he would want me; no reason why anyone would. Anyway, even if he did — unlikely as that was — he was surely professional enough not to ever act on it.

I should have just kept my big mouth shut. I shouldn’t have bothered Ms Grant with my raging idiocy. But before I could tell her to just forget it, she was already speaking.

“Of course it doesn’t,” she agreed. “Although, if this hypothetical girl is at all unsure about what the equally hypothetical boy’s intentions might be, she could always ask him.”

I stared at her, feeling my eyes pop wide.

“What, just… talk to him?”

“A radical notion, I know,” she said dryly. “But, believe it or not, sometimes the best way to find something out is simply to ask. It’s a little trick that those of us in the know like to call communication. I live in hope that one of these days it might catch on.”

I scowled at her sarcasm before I could stop myself, but then hastily wiped away the expression, replacing it with something that was hopefully in the ballpark of vaguely thoughtful.

And I was thinking. I was thinking about going to Carlos and trying to find a way to tactfully ask him if he wanted to fuck me. Without making it sound like I actually wanted that. God, even imagining that conversation was enough to make me cringe inside. And when I thought about what he might say in response…

“But what if it turns out that it does mean something more?” I found myself blurting out.

I mean, it didn’t; of course it didn’t. But… But what if… What if it did?

It felt like a lifetime before Ms Grant replied.

“Well, that really depends on the individuals in question.” That answer was… less than helpful. After another lifetime, though — or, at least, a moment or two — she continued. “Does the girl in this scenario want it to mean something more?”

“Fuck, no!” The words slipped out before I could stop myself, and my face heated with embarrassment. “Um, sorry, Ms Grant.”

“No need to apologise,” she said absently, and I was relieved that she didn’t seem angry at my outburst. She just seemed thoughtful. “But, to answer your question, even if the boy is romantically inclined towards the girl, she is under no obligation to reciprocate. She can simply tell him that she’s not interested.”

Could I, though? He was my superior officer. Even if he couldn’t technically punish me for turning him down, it wasn’t like it would be hard for him to find a reason to discipline the shit out of me. And who would question a commander disciplining his subordinate?

(But what if he wouldn’t take no for an answer? What then?)

My skin prickled with goose pimples and another shiver went down my spine. Maybe it really was a little chilly in here.

But I should probably say something before this fucking awkward silence stretched any further.

“Thank you for the information,” I said politely.

“You’re welcome.” There was an odd note in her voice. Concern, maybe? I wasn’t entirely certain. The next time we had to stop for a red light, though, she turned and looked at me, scrutinising me with that piercing gaze I’d come to dread. “Astrid, you know you can always tell me if something is bothering you, don’t you? No matter what it is.”

“I know that, Ms Grant,” I said, striving to keep my tone neutral even as stupid nerves made my stomach twist.

I could — and did — talk to her about some things. Policies and regulations I had trouble getting my head around. Some of my teammates’ more mystifying actions and behaviours. (I hoped that didn’t count as telling tales. But talking things through with her was helping me to get a handle on why they did some of the ineffable things they did, and fuck knows I needed the help in that regard.) In some respects, she was actually pretty easy to talk to. And that was a problem. A big problem. Because there were limits to what I could actually say.

I couldn’t tell her anything that would compromise the secrets I had to keep. Nor could I say anything that might lead to trouble with the PRT. I knew how these things worked. If she caused trouble for the PRT because of something I’d said, there would be consequences. And, any way you sliced it, short term peace of mind was in no way worth long term suffering. That was just common sense.

The light turned green, and we were on our way again. We were almost at the next junction — I was just starting to think about opening my textbook up again — before Ms Grant next spoke.

“I hope you know that no one has the right to push you into doing something you’re not comfortable with.”

_Bullshit,_ I couldn’t help thinking. Wasn’t that the very essence of a chain of command? It was all about knowing whose orders you had to follow, whether you liked it or not. Agreeing with those orders was strictly optional. Sure, disobedience was always a possibility, but it came with consequences.

And… now we were back to yet more things I couldn’t say to her. I took a breath, rearranged my features into my best approximation of an earnest expression and nodded.

“Yes, Ms Grant.”

“Will you tell me if someone does try to put pressure on you?”

_Not fucking likely._

“Of course.”

I was seriously regretting bringing this subject up. Luckily, unless I’d completely misread the situation — always a possibility — this seemed to be the end of it. I started to relax a little, cautiously reaching for my textbook again.

Which, naturally, was when Ms Grant said, “So. About the events of this weekend…”

_Motherfucker!_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I initially intended to start 4.02 with this scene, as a mirror to the beginning of 4.01, with Ms Grant driving Astrid to school. However, once I’d actually written it, I realised that it was essentially outright stating a lot of things that either had already been brought up or were going to be addressed in the rest of the chapter. I liked the interaction between Astrid and Ms Grant, but that by itself didn’t add enough to the scene to make it worth the word count. So I decided to cut it. Without any prompting by Tamoline, even!


	14. Security

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Astrid discusses PRT information security protocols with Deputy Director Renick

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A deleted segment of Astrid's debrief by Renick in 4.02

“All done,” I said. My words were unnecessary as he was undoubtedly receiving an electronic acknowledgement of his own this very second, but it felt impolite not to say something.

“The wonders of modern technology,” Mr Renick said, grinning. “We haven’t quite achieved a truly paperless office yet, of course, but we’re working on it. I’m determined to get us as close to it as we can, even if certain departments who shall remain nameless are going to have to be dragged there kicking and screaming all the way.”

I thought back to Ms Grant’s office, and the several trees’ worth of papers that piled up on every available surface. I certainly couldn’t imagine her office, tiny as it was, going paperless any time soon. (I tried not to think that I’d miss the feeling of cosiness the paper piles, along with the rest of the miscellaneous clutter, lent to the room.) A paperless office was better for the environment, of course, and it was more efficient, with increased accessibility of information, all of which were excellent reasons to change. But I couldn’t help wondering…

“May I ask a question?”

“Of course,” Mr Renick said. “You’re always welcome to ask.”

“Thank you.” A tension I hadn’t even been aware of eased slightly with that response. Just because no one else so far had seemed to mind me asking them questions, that didn’t mean everyone would be so tolerant. I hadn’t wanted to assume. “I was just wondering… Aren’t you worried about security?”

“How so?” he asked, raising his eyebrows quizzically.

Was this a test?

“Well,” I began, trying to order my thoughts. “To compromise a paper file, you have to physically access the building. Or find someone you can coerce or persuade into doing it for you. But electronic files have more points of access, especially when transmitted beyond the local intranet. The system could be hacked.”

“While that’s technically true,” he said, “our systems are pretty robust. Plus, in addition to all the usual kinds of safeguards, we also use tinker tech to add an additional level of security. That’s thanks largely to Dragon.”

_Better hope she never gets compromised, then,_ I mused cynically.

“Well, yes,” Mr Renick said, eyeing me oddly, and I was disturbed to realise I’d said that out loud. “But what makes you say that?”

Okay, this was definitely a test. I shrugged, feeling my face heat.

“The biggest point of failure for any system is the human element,” I said, quoting some two-bit hacker Dad had worked with on a job a while back. “Or the parahuman element. Not that compromising Dragon would be easy, given her capabilities, but if someone figured out how to apply the right leverage, that could give them an easy backdoor into the system. And, given the distributed nature of the PRT network, gaining access to that can potentially compromise far more information in a much shorter time than getting into a dead tree storage facility.”

“Go on,” he murmured, when I hesitated.

I nodded, taking a moment to put my thoughts in order before continuing.

“You wouldn’t even need to go after someone as high level as Dragon, or a director. Better if you don’t, in fact, because that’s the kind of thing that gets noticed fast.” Warming to my subject now, I sat up a little straighter in my seat, confident in my knowledge. “But even low-level PRT employees would have enough clearance to get you into the system at least. And any information retrieval specialist worth their salt would be able to parley that into something useful, given a little time and patience. Because, like I said, the weakest point of any system is the human element, and people are never as good with information security as they think they are.” Belatedly noting that Mr Renick’s eyebrows had been climbing towards his hairline, I swallowed what I’d been about to say about target selection and leverage, flushing even more. “Um, sorry. I, uh, guess I got a little side-tracked.”

“That’s alright,” he said slowly, still looking at me with that strange, unfathomable expression. “You’ve clearly given this some thought.”

“Not… really?” I said, hating the uncertain lilt that made it a question. “It’s just common sense.”

Well, that and training, but I didn’t really want to open up that can of worms right now. Hellfire and damnation! Why couldn’t I learn to keep my stupid mouth shut? But I hadn’t said anything particularly out there, I didn’t think. I mean, this was just basic stuff. Everybody knew this kind of shit.

Didn’t they?

“I see.” He studied me for a moment more, and then smiled slightly, continuing in what seemed to be his usual affable tone. “In any case, you can rest assured that our information security experts know what they’re doing.”

“Of course,” I agreed hastily. “I wasn’t suggesting that they didn’t. I was just… thinking aloud, I suppose. I certainly wasn’t suggesting that compromising the system would be at all easy.” Uncomfortably aware of just how close I was to a full-on babble, I made myself stop and take a breath. In a more measured tone, I continued, “I intended no offence.”

“Oh, I’m not offended; don’t worry about that,” he assured me, sounding like he meant it. “I was just a little surprised, that’s all.” He paused there, as if expecting a response, but with no fucking clue what to say, I just stared stupidly at him. After what felt like a lifetime of painfully awkward silence, he thankfully seemed to take pity on me. “In any case, now we’ve finished with the report, there’s something I’d like to say.” He leaned forward in his seat, his expression strangely earnest as he met my gaze. “It’s about the explosion.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sometimes I end up going off at tangents when I write. (This, I'm sure, will come as news to precisely no one.) In this case, Astrid's musings on the importance of security might have given some insight into some of Gavin's training, but it's not anything that the reader doesn't already know by this point. There is some minor worldbuilding on PRT procedure, I suppose. Ultimately, though, it was a digression that spoiled the pacing of the scene while adding little of value, so I took it out. (Alas, as it never actually happened, this means that Renick doesn't know quite how paranoid Astrid actually is. Ah, well. I'm sure there will be other opportunities.)


	15. A Meeting

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Director Piggot has a meeting with her newest Ward. (Canon omake, falling between 4.03 and 4.04.)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I wasn't initially intending to actually write out this scene, but my muse got ahold of it and wouldn't let me move on with the next chapter until I did. I briefly considered making it the basis of an interlude, but it doesn't really add enough to the story as is. Still, for anyone who's interested in seeing what Astrid looks like from the outside, here it is.

The knock at the door came precisely on the hour. Somehow, Emily was unsurprised. She straightened in her seat, holding in a wince as pain darted through her neck and back. Not for the first time, she promised herself that she’d be better about not hunching over her desk in the future.

“Come in.”

The door opened to reveal the tall, grey-clad form of Emily’s newest Ward. Pausing briefly to close the door quietly behind her — not an easy task, given its tendency to slam — Talos strode purposefully forward, coming smartly to attention before Emily’s desk.

“You wanted to see me, Ma’am?” She spoke crisply, her tone devoid of inflection, just as her masked face was — as far as Emily could tell — more or less completely blank of expression.

Emily suddenly found herself thinking back to her meeting with Lysowski. She would have been hard pressed to say which one of the two had stood before her with the most rigid posture.

“Yes.”

Emily took a moment to survey the girl, paying particular attention to the new bruises marring the visible parts of her face. _Grant was right,_ she mused sourly. This was troubling. However, although she’d told Grant that she would get to the bottom of it, she’d subsequently rethought that instinctive response. The problem with looking into it personally was that it made things… official. And, depending on what she found out, that could potentially lead to other problems. Sometimes ignorance was, if not bliss, then at least convenient. Which didn’t mean that nothing would be done, but that was what subordinates were for. She trusted that Renick and Aegis had everything well in hand. Still, there was one thing she wanted to confirm for herself.

“Show me your hands,” she ordered. It was almost a shock when, instead of responding with the ‘why?’ Emily had been conditioned to expect from her Wards, Talos merely obediently and silently held out her hands for inspection. Emily nodded to herself, completely unsurprised to see split and scabbed knuckles, along with miscellaneous other healing scrapes.

_Not as one-sided as Grant made it sound, then._

Her choice to leave the matter in Renick’s capable hands confirmed, the subject was summarily dismissed from her mind. She studied Talos for a moment more — the girl was still standing there like a statue, her hands held out in front of her — and then said, “At ease.” Just as she had at their last meeting, Talos seemed to move without conscious thought, shifting automatically into a rest position. “Take a seat.”

“Thank you, Ma’am.”

Even though she knew better by this point, Emily found herself instinctively searching the words for some hint of sarcasm or mockery. As far as she could tell, though, there was nothing there but polite sincerity.

_How novel._

Her amusement, however, was tainted by the knowledge of what had likely gone into making Talos quite so polite and respectful; of why a child might respond to orders like a trained soldier. Perhaps that was why she found herself asking, “How are you?”

“Fine, thank you, Ma’am,” Talos said after a moment. She seemed tense. Well, even more tense. By all accounts, ‘tense’ seemed to be her natural state. “How are you?”

_Of course she’d say she’s fine,_ Emily thought, resisting the urge to roll her eyes at herself. _What was I expecting?_

Why would the girl admit to being even a little out of sorts? She’d only been beaten black and blue on top of suffering the aftereffects of power overuse. Still, there was no mileage in calling her on it until and unless it became necessary.

After considering and rejecting a number of responses, Emily eventually settled on, “Surviving.”

“Sometimes that’s all you can do,” Talos murmured, only to freeze, her eyes going wide. “Apologies, Ma’am,” she said hurriedly. “I didn’t mean to say that. I intended no disrespect.”

“No apology necessary,” Emily said mildly. “You weren’t disrespectful.” Not even close, in fact. “And you’re certainly not wrong.”

Talos merely nodded once, her expression smoothing to blankness once again. The effect was more than a little uncanny, and when combined with her utter stillness it made her seem more like a doll or a mannequin than something living. Emily wondered if it was something she’d cultivated deliberately, or if it, like her response to orders, was yet another ingrained habit. But that was idle speculation, irrelevant to the matter at hand.

_Speaking of which…_

It was not without some relief that Emily abandoned her ill-advised foray into small talk.

“In any event,” she said briskly. “You must be wondering about the purpose of this meeting…”

Habit, more than intent, made her trail off, watching Talos with an expectant air. All the girl said, though, was a polite, “Yes, Ma’am.”

Unlike Lysowski, she apparently wasn’t going to let herself be led into giving anything away. Just as well that wasn’t really a part of Emily’s game plan. Squelching the stray, treacherous thought that reassurances weren’t precisely within her wheelhouse, and perhaps this conversation would have been best left to Renick after all, she made an effort to soften her naturally stern expression.

“I’ve been reviewing the reports on Saturday’s search and rescue operation,” she began, only to pause when Talos flinched. “Is something wrong?” she asked.

“No, Ma’am.” Despite her level tone, the flush spreading over the girl’s battered face put the lie to that statement.

_Looks like Grant might have been right about something else,_ Emily thought, trying not to resent the possibility. Briefly considering and rejecting the option of questioning Talos further as to the source of her unease, she opted instead to press on with what she’d begun to say.

Besides, if Grant **was** right, this would hopefully solve the problem.

“Very well,” she said briskly. “As I was saying, I’ve been reviewing the reports from Saturday, and I would like to commend you for your actions. You performed admirably under difficult circumstances, and you made a significant and positive contribution to the outcome of the operation.”

She waited expectantly, but Talos merely sat there in silence, fixing her with a glassy-eyed, uncomprehending stare. Just as the silence was starting to feel truly awkward, she shook herself slightly and cleared her throat.

“Excuse me, Ma’am?”

“Was I unclear?” Emily asked, wondering if the infirmary had been premature in clearing Talos to go about her normal daily activities. “You did a good job on your first foray into the field.” Just in case that still wasn’t plain enough, she added. “Well done, Talos.”

“Oh. Uh… thank you, Ma’am.” There was something in her voice; mostly complete and utter befuddlement, yes, but under that, an edge of… Was that suspicion? Even as the thought crossed Emily’s mind, the girl spoke again, her demeanour once more tightly controlled. “Permission to speak freely, Ma’am?”

“Of course you can speak freely.” Emily tried very hard to keep her irritation from showing, but from the way Talos froze, she wasn’t entirely sure she was successful. Deliberately softening her voice, she added, “Unless I tell you otherwise, I expect you to speak openly and forthrightly about anything that may be relevant to the matter at hand.”

She wouldn’t dream of saying such a thing to Shadow Stalker or, heaven forbid, Clockblocker — at least not without hedging it with an admonition to remain within the bounds of courtesy — but somehow she doubted very much that Talos would take her statement as license to be insubordinate.

“Thank you, Ma’am.” Case in point. “Are you-” Talos’ voice cracked. She cleared her throat and tried again. “Are you sure that I did… well?”

Emily frowned in consternation.

“I’m not in the habit of handing out empty praise,” she said, perhaps a little more severely than she intended. “If I commend someone’s actions, then you can be certain that they deserve to be commended.”

“Of course, Ma’am,” Talos said, somehow contriving, despite her already rigid posture, to give the impression of snapping to attention in her seat. “I didn’t mean to imply otherwise.”

She thought about telling the girl it wasn’t actually necessary to address her as ‘Ma’am’ every single time she spoke, but decided that could wait for another occasion. Right now, it would probably just confuse matters.

_She seems confused enough as it is._

And, apparently, unwilling or unable to simply accept the praise at face value. It seemed that Grant had been wrong about Emily being the best person for this job. There was a reason she tended to leave this side of things to Renick. What did she know about comforting distressed children? It occurred to her that, technically, she’d said what she intended to say. She could simply dismiss Talos and return to dealing with the never ending list of things clamouring for her attention. But, technicalities aside, the task was clearly incomplete, and the thought of leaving it that way galled her.

After a moment’s consideration, she straightened in her seat, once again ignoring the twinge of pain in her neck and shoulders — yes, years of riding a desk had definitely brought about some bad habits — to fix Talos with a stern gaze.

“What do you believe you did wrong?” she asked. “And be specific.”

Grant would no doubt have counselled a kinder, gentler approach, but Grant wasn’t here. Besides, she had a hunch that trying to be kind would just confuse the girl even more. She’d said herself that she preferred clarity. This way was undoubtedly easier on both of them.

“Yes, Ma’am,” Talos said. She paused for a moment, perhaps to gather her thoughts, and then continued in a flat, emotionless monotone. “I failed to inform Aleph leader that I was having difficulties. I failed to remain functional for the duration of the mission. I failed to notice whatever caused the explosion in time to do anything about it. I failed to keep the building together long enough for the emergency responders to recover all the people trapped inside.” For the first time since entering Emily’s office, she broke eye contact, dropping her gaze to the ground. From the way her shoulders and upper arms tensed, she was likely clenching her hands into fists. Despite the quietness of her next words, the raw pain in her voice was clearly audible. “I failed to save people.”

Time seemed to stretch, and the silence with it. Emily couldn’t help cursing Lysowski for sending Talos into the field so soon, even though she perfectly understood her subordinate’s reasons for doing so. But what was done was done. For good or ill, this was now Emily’s mess to deal with.

_At least she was specific._

Just as ordered.

“You should have informed Officer MacArdle when you began suffering the effects of power overuse,” she agreed. Talos’ gaze snapped up to meet hers as soon as she started speaking, but otherwise she remained as still and silent as a stone. “Or at least said something to your assigned escort. Do you know why?”

Talos nodded.

“The field commander needs to be kept apprised of factors that might affect the outcome of the mission, Ma’am,” she responded crisply. “That includes the status of his personnel.”

“Correct,” Emily said, raising her eyebrows a little at the phrasing. “And?”

There was a brief pause, and then, “If a soldier is damaged or otherwise impaired, Ma’am, they may have difficulty fulfilling their assigned role, potentially necessitating a change of plan.”

“And?” Emily repeated, wondering with an uneasy kind of fascination what had led the girl’s father to decide that his children needed to know such things.

_Does she really think of herself as a soldier?_

There was a longer pause that time.

“If a soldier is impaired to the point of potential incapacitation, Ma’am, then evacuation may be necessary.”

Emily regarded Talos thoughtfully. Talos looked back at her, still giving nothing away.

“And,” Emily said again, not seeing the point of making it a question this time, “it isn’t acceptable for you to put yourself at that kind of risk. If you’d said something, you would have been pulled out before things got so bad that you lost consciousness.” She narrowed her eyes, her voice deliberately stern as she added, “You’re not supposed to get hurt.”

Talos frowned. She started to speak, hesitated, and then, when Emily was about to tell her to just spit it out, apparently decided of her own accord to press onwards.

“Officer MacArdle said something similar, Ma’am,” she said cautiously. “And I realise that I should have kept him informed, but…” She paused; took a breath. “I’m not sure that pulling me out sooner would have been the optimal course of action. Civilian lives were still at risk. That was more important than a little discomfort on my part.”

_‘A little discomfort,’ she says._

There was a time when Emily would have felt sceptical of a cape who claimed to place civilian lives above their own. Nowadays, she was able to accept that capes, just like anyone else, occupied a whole spectrum from selfish to selfless and everything in-between. (Stability was another matter, but that fact wasn’t particularly germane right now.) And in this particular instance, she was inclined to take the claim at face value.

If only it didn’t have more than a little to do with the low priority Talos appeared to place on her own wellbeing. Certainly less than achieving her ‘objectives,’ according to the psychologist at Northeast.

_This really is something best left to the counsellors,_ she thought with distaste. _But, in the interim…_

“There will always be civilians at risk,” she said. “And if you put yourself out of commission trying to help one group, then that means you won’t be able to help others.”

“I realise that, Ma’am,” Talos said after a moment, sounding a little subdued. “I underestimated how severe the effects would be. And how persistent.”

At least she understood that what she’d done to herself was serious. That was a start. Emily considered reiterating the fact that Wards ideally weren’t supposed to be put in harm’s way in the first place, but rejected it out of hand. Somehow, she doubted it would be an effective deterrent. Instead, she took a different tack.

“Well, I expect you to be more careful from now on,” she said sternly. “Don’t push yourself to such extremes in the future. Do you understand?”

“Yes, Ma’am,” Talos said swiftly, only to hesitantly add, a moment later, “But… what if that’s the only way to complete the mission?”

Emily frowned.

_Perhaps Hamish had a point._

“Let me rephrase,” she said, perhaps a little more severely than she intended. “Don’t hurt yourself like that again. That is an order.”

“Understood, Ma’am.”

“Good,” she said, wondering if it really would be that simple. And, while she was on the subject… “Leaving aside the fact that it shouldn’t have happened in the first place. I know I have a certain reputation among the Wards but, believe it or not, I don’t actually consider being injured in the line of duty to be disciplinary offence.”

Talos twitched at that, and Emily wondered if perhaps she should have phrased her point a little differently.

All she said aloud, though, was, “I see, Ma’am.”

That was probably a sign she should move on.

“As for your other points…” She took a moment to compose her thoughts, noting the flicker of trepidation that showed in Talos’ eyes before her face took on that doll-like blankness once again. “No one was expecting you to be able to keep the building together indefinitely. You bought as much time as you could. That’s all anyone could ask. And, as I understand it, there’s no reason to expect that you should have been able to detect whatever caused the explosion ahead of time. So neither of those are things you did wrong.”

Even if they had been, the official policy was that they weren’t. You didn’t blame an unprepared child for mistakes stemming from inexperience, especially when she shouldn’t have been put in that situation in begin with. Not that she actually believed Talos to be at fault, but she would probably have said the same thing regardless. If mistakes had been made, there were more appropriate ways of addressing them.

“Thank you, Ma’am.”

Had any of that actually helped? It was impossible to be sure, but Emily fancied that perhaps the girl did seem to relax the tiniest amount. That was probably about as much as she could hope for.

There was just one more point to address.

Against her will, Emily found herself thinking of a hospital room full of beds, only two of which were occupied.

(Even after all this time, the edges of it were still crisp and sharp, and for a brief moment the smell of antiseptic was so strong that she almost wondered if there’d been a spillage somewhere.)

She still didn’t know why it was that still, quiet tableau, rather than any of the other images branded on her mind’s eye, that rose up whenever she thought of loss, but there it was. And, just as she always did, she merely acknowledged it and moved on.

This was neither the time nor the place for wallowing in melancholy.

“Other people have undoubtedly already told you this,” she said, not even attempting to soften the matter-of-factness of her tone, “but you can’t always save everyone, no matter how hard you try.”

“I know that, Ma’am,” Talos said quietly, the bleakness in her eyes making her seem older than her sixteen years. “It’s not the first time I’ve… tried to save someone and failed.”

Emily regarded her for a moment, keeping her expression impassive despite her discomfort. She knew what the girl was referring to, of course. Part of her wanted to ask for more information about the incident in question. Part of her wanted to change the subject to something that didn’t require… delicacy. In the end, though, she decided to focus on concrete, achievable goals.

“Is there anything you think you could have done differently?” she asked.

“I… don’t know, Ma’am,” Talos said, sounding conflicted. “I’ve gone over it, and I’m afraid I can’t think of anything specific.” Her jaw tensed and, so quietly that Emily had to strain her ears to make out the words, she murmured, “I should have been better.”

“Better comes with training and experience,” Emily told her firmly. “You did as well as could be expected under the circumstances. If I thought you’d made any egregious errors, I’d tell you. You may be sure of that.” It was one thing to make allowances for inexperience and circumstances. It was quite another to encourage bad habits. She had no intention whatsoever of doing the latter. She didn’t smile, but she let her expression soften a little, a thread of dry humour running through her voice a she added, “Just accept the praise, Talos.”

The girl studied her for a moment, and then nodded, visibly relaxing. There was even an answering note of humour in her own voice as she replied, “Thank you, Ma’am.” Before Emily could finish congratulating herself on a job well done, though, she added, “I didn’t intend to question you; I was just… concerned.”

Emily considered and rejected a number of responses before settling on, “Noted, but as I said before, you are permitted to ask questions.” Again, not something she’d necessarily say to all the Wards, but it seemed necessary in this case. And it was just… easier… to speak in terms of orders and permissions and declarative statements with this particular Ward.

Case in point, Talos seemed almost cheerful as she replied, “Thank you, Ma’am.”

_It’s for the best_ , Emily told herself, trying to still the ripple of disquiet as a part of her wondered if perhaps she was just reinforcing Astrid’s — Talos’ — trauma.

“Do you have any further questions?” she asked briskly.

“No, Ma’am,” Talos said briskly, and then frowned. “Actually, yes, Ma’am. I do.” She seemed tense again all of a sudden, and she eyed Emily with what looked like trepidation. “I was told that I inadvertently… injured… two members of Aleph squad as they administered first aid on the way back to base.”

“I’m aware,” Emily said slowly, thinking back to Hamish’s report of the incident in question. It had been brief, but expressive.

Talos suddenly went very still.

“Apologies, Ma’am. I should have mentioned it earlier. I’m afraid it slipped my mind.”

_Why is she- Oh._

“No harm done,” Emily said dismissively. “Anyway, if you had brought it up, I would have told you that lashing out while delirious from power overuse syndrome doesn’t actually count as doing something wrong.”

Instead of relaxing, Talos once more did her uncanny impression of a blank-faced doll.

“Does that mean I’m not going to be punished for it, Ma’am?” she asked, her tone utterly inflectionless.

“Of course you’re not going to be punished!” Emily snapped, offended at the suggestion that she would be so petty. Hard on the heels of that instinctive offence, however, came the realisation of just why the girl might have made that assumption. _I suppose it’s a good thing Grant’s not here to tut disapprovingly at me._ Mentally kicking herself, she moderated her tone to add, “Was that what you wanted to ask?”

Talos gave her the most peculiar look. Part confusion, part indignation, part something she had no idea how to interpret. A moment later, though, all that was smoothed away again.

“No, Ma’am,” she said politely. “I wanted to apologise to the officers in question, but I’m not certain how to get in contact with them.” Her forehead creased in a frown. “Or even if I’m permitted to contact them. I’m… not certain of the etiquette. Would you be able to advise me?”

Emily raised her eyebrows, sitting back a little in her chair.

“I’m sure the officers don’t blame you,” she said.

“Even so, Ma’am, it seems only polite.” The girl’s tone was crisp and confident now; a far cry from her previous trepidation.

_That’s something, I suppose…_

After a moment’s consideration, Emily decided that it wouldn’t do any harm to indulge Talos’ guilty conscience. It might even be a good thing.

_Lord knows it’s nice to have a cape who actually respects the troops for once…_

No, that was probably unfair. After all, some of her capes actually did have good working relationships with the squaddies. Unfortunately, some of them… didn’t. Which was all the more reason to encourage this endeavour.

“Very well,” she said. “Do you want to send a message, or speak to them in person?”

“In person, Ma’am.”

“Good.” Emily nodded approvingly, amused when Talos seemed to sit up a little straighter in her chair. She called up the duty roster on her computer. “Aleph squad are third shift standby this week so, barring any major incidents, they should be on base this evening. Talk to the duty officer for the shift — that’s still Lieutenant Lysowski — and she’ll put you in touch. I’ll let her know to expect you. Is that acceptable?”

“Yes, Ma’am,” Talos said briskly. “I’m shadowing one of my teammates on console duty tonight, so I can stop by during first break, if that’s convenient.”

“I don’t see why not.”

It was certainly an efficient use of her time.

“Thank you, Ma’am.”

Now that had been dealt with, Emily’s thoughts were already skipping ahead to the thousand and one other tasks that awaited her attention. This meeting had taken rather more time than she would’ve liked. More than she’d anticipated, certainly.

Not that she planned on letting Talos know that.

She did, however, make her next words deliberately leading.

“Then if there’s nothing else…?”

“No, Ma’am,” Talos replied promptly.

“Very well.” Amusement mingling with unease, she took a breath, drawing her spine straight as she met the girl’s gaze. “Dismissed.”


	16. One Fine Day

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A year on from the events of Mixed Feelings, a happier and emotionally healthier Astrid goes on a date.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is a completely non-canon omake, and shouldn’t be assumed to reflect upcoming events in Mixed Feelings. Nor should it be assumed to reflect the canonical gender identities, etc, of the characters involved.
> 
> Basically, I liked an Astrid/Denise prompt someone gave on the Spacebattles thread and decided to write a small self contained fic around it.

The sun shone brightly in the clear blue sky, the heat of it kept the right side of pleasant by the light breeze curling in from the ocean to lightly stir my hair against the back of my neck.

_Almost time to have it cut again,_ I thought distractedly.

Everywhere I looked, there were people sporting the bright colours and light fabrics of summer. It seemed like half the population of Brockton (fucking) Bay, plus about a gazillion tourists, had turned out to enjoy what was shaping up to be a truly glorious day. They were ambling hither and yon as if they didn’t have a care in the world; chattering and laughing and generally having a grand old time.

So why did I feel like I’d never been in more danger?

I scanned my surroundings for potential threats, hyper-alert to everyone and everything around me as I catalogued and analysed every tiny little potentially relevant detail. Given that I was on the Boardwalk on a Saturday afternoon during the height of tourist season, this wasn’t the easiest of tasks. Was that man in the blue sweater paying just a little too much attention? Was the girl in the green dress really just taking a selfie, or was it just a clever ruse; the camera on her phone secretly pointing in this direction? Was it just a coincidence that the alleged tourist couple in the matching ‘I’m with stupid’ T-shirts seemed to be heading the same way, or were they actually following-

“Astrid, relax.”

I absolutely didn’t jump. Instead, I turned calmly and with great dignity to look at the redheaded girl strolling blithely along next to me.

“I am relaxed,” I told her, striving for an aloof tone.

There was a… non-zero chance the words might actually have come out sounding a little defensive.

“I can see that,” Denise murmured, rolling her eyes.

I glowered half-heartedly at her, trying in vain not to flush with embarrassed annoyance.

“I’m fine,” I said irritably. “You’re just…” Imagining things, was what I was going to say. But before I could finish my sentence, she gave me a Look, one eyebrow delicately arched as she peered at me over the glasses I knew she didn’t really need. And somehow, instead, I found myself saying, “There are just so many people around today.”

Hellfire and damnation. Could I possibly have sounded any more whiny and pathetic?

From the sympathy in her eyes, the answer to that question was almost certainly ‘not much.’ To my relief, though, instead of harping on about it, she pouted and said, “And here I was thinking that you were only supposed to have eyes for me.”

“Egotistical asshole,” I retorted, the words undercut somewhat by the stupid grin that seemed to have plastered itself over my face.

“I thought that was one of the things you liked about me,” she drawled, smirking as she added, “As well as my fabulous legs.” I spluttered a little, my face heating like a furnace. Improbable as it seemed, my cheeks burned even more when she snapped her fingers and sing-songed, “My eyes are up here, Astrid.”

I wrenched my gaze back up again, glaring defiantly despite the fact that my face was undoubtedly the colour of a fire truck right about now.

Well, if she thought I was going to let a provocation like that pass unanswered, she had another fucking think coming.

“Yeah?” I made the word a challenge, curving my lips in a feral smile as I held her gaze and stretched lazily. The hem of my T-shirt rode up with the movement, just enough to show off my stomach. I honestly felt a little silly doing this, and the shirt was rather shorter than anything I would have chosen for myself, but Victoria had seemed so certain. She’d certainly given me some good advice in that regard in the past. Also some… less than good advice, but the less said about that, the better. From the way Denise’s eye-line dropped sharply though, it seemed that in this instance, Victoria might have had a point. All of a sudden, I felt a whole hell of a lot less silly. Deliberately pitching my voice low, I murmured, “Because they seem to be somewhere else right now.”

“Um,” Denise said eloquently.

I laughed. It felt so unbelievably fucking good not to be the one left struggling for words for once.

And, in a different way, it felt kinda, weirdly… really fucking good to know **why** she was so flustered right now.

“Hey, Denise,” I sort of, almost, maybe, somehow… purred? “My eyes are up here.”

It was extremely gratifying to see the way she started at the sound of my voice.

“So they are,” she murmured, her gaze seeming to take the scenic route as it drifted slowly all the way back up to meet mine. And… now I was perilously close to getting flustered again. Still, at least I wasn’t the only one who seemed a little flushed, even if she did seem to have recovered her composure annoyingly, frustratingly fast. Not to mention her smirk. “I see someone’s bringing her A-game.”

“Always,” I said, finishing the stretch and taking a step towards her. I started to say something, but then whatever-it-was flew right out of my head as I suddenly realised I’d been so distracted by… things… that I’d barely been paying any attention to our surroundings.

Was that group of guys looking at us?

(Were they thinking about teaching us a lesson?)

God, how the fuck could I have been so careless?

(Especially after… everything.)

“Astrid, stop.” Denise’s voice was quiet, but firm; the tone as much as the words themselves snapping me out of my incipient spiral. Once she had my attention, though, she smiled at me. Not a smirk; just a smile. The soft pink of her lipstick seemed to shimmer in the light, making her lips look plump and soft. She’d called the shade rhubarb, I thought distractedly, even though it looked nothing like any rhubarb I’d ever seen. _I wonder if it_ \- “Penny for your thoughts?” she asked brightly, and maybe just a touch knowingly.

“Um,” I said, cringing inside as I realised I was echoing her earlier response, even down to the thoroughly discombobulated tone. I pulled myself together and met her eyes again, once more keenly aware of the anxiety fluttering around the corners of my mind. “Not sure my thoughts are worth that much,” I muttered. I glanced quickly around, trying to keep my surveillance surreptitious; trying to ignore the nagging sensation that we were surrounded by enemies and had targets on our backs. “Just…” I took another quick look around. “Follow me.”

Without waiting for an answer, I headed towards my objective, trusting her to move when I said. Sure enough, I heard the familiar thunk of her heels on the scuffed boards; felt the reassuring brush of her arm against mine as she kept pace beside me.

“So commanding,” she murmured. I cast an irritated glance her way and her smirk deepened. Because of course she was smirking; of **course** she was. “I like a girl who knows how to take charge.”

“Does that mean you’d actually behave if I ordered you to?” I asked, amused despite myself.

“Where’s the fun in that?”

I rolled my eyes, but said nothing. I would honestly have been shocked if she’d replied in any other way.

By this point, we’d reached the little viewing area I’d chosen. It was a little way off the main strip, and thankfully unoccupied by any tourists trying to peer through the shitty coin-operated binoculars pointed at the beach. We could talk in relative privacy.

Plus, we’d be able to see anyone approaching us in plenty of time, and the railing was easily hoppable in a pinch. Also, in the unlikely worst case scenario, the shitty binoculars were in a metal case and mounted on a metal pole.

But now I really was being paranoid.

“What even is the point of those binoculars, anyway?” I wondered aloud as I leaned my back against the sun-warmed railing, looking out over the Boardwalk. “The sea is right there. You can just walk on over. It isn’t that far.”

I noted absently that there was a crack starting to spread through the base of one of the railing’s supports a little way along from the viewing area. I bound it back together with about as much thought, shifting a few bonds around here and there to ameliorate some of the stresses and strains that were tearing it apart. I made a mental note of its location so I could tell the maintenance crew about it when I had the chance.

“I always assumed it was so people could ogle the sunbathers,” Denise said, shrugging.

I shook my head.

“Of course you would.”

She laughed softly and leaned against the railing next to me. Her arm brushed mine again, lightly at first and then settling against it when I didn’t pull away. I sighed softly, only noticing the tension between my shoulder blades and in the back of my neck when it started to ease a little. We stayed like that for a few moments, the silence stretching comfortably between us. It felt almost like we were in our own little bubble, just the two of us. Our own little world, almost. After a little while — not as short as I’d hoped; not as long as I’d feared — I’d relaxed enough that I could tear my restless gaze from the Boardwalk and tilt my face to the sky, enjoying the feel of the sunlight on my skin.

_This is… nice._

I didn’t say anything when Denise scooched closer, merely shifting a little so she could lean in without having to twist at an awkward angle. She was warm against me; warm like the sun on my face, like the railing pressing against my back and the boards beneath my feet. Like those, she grounded me; keeping me in the here and now, rather than the then and there.

_Yeah, definitely nice._

Her arm slid against mine again, and for one brief, heart stopping moment, I thought she was going to pull away. She didn’t though, and my heart fluttered for entirely different reasons when her fingertips trailed slowly, lightly, delicately over the back of my hand before coming to a gentle halt.

My chest started to ache, and I realised with a start that I was holding my breath. I made myself stop.

She wasn’t doing anything; wasn’t even saying anything, at least not with words. But her hand was just **there** , and even though it was barely even touching mine, I just couldn’t stop thinking about it, and about how easy it would be to just…

_Oh, fuck this,_ I thought crossly. _I’m seventeen years old. This is completely fucking ridiculous._

Before I could second-guess myself any further, I turned my hand around and slid my fingers through hers, clasping our palms tightly together.

Denise laughed softly, and I twitched instinctively before she squeezed my hand back and I recognised the relief threaded in with the amusement.

“Took you long enough,” she said chidingly.

“Not a fucking mindreader,” I shot back, even though we both knew I’d known right away what she’d been asking me. Just as we both knew exactly what my answer meant.

I couldn’t help looking down at our hands, at her pale fingers entwined with my tanned ones, and I was completely unsurprised to find myself smiling.

_This is really fucking nice._

Just as the thought crossed my mind, movement caught my eye. I glanced over to see Denise bringing one leg up slightly to rest her foot on the lower railing, bending her knee and hooking the heel of her shoe over it with a practiced, confident motion. Her balance didn’t even waver a little. The hem of her summer dress fluttered slightly in the breeze, which was stronger out here at the very edge of the Boardwalk. Fresher, too; purer. It hadn’t yet picked up its burden of sweat and sweetness from the thronging crowds with their cotton candy, doughnuts and salt-water taffy. The only thing it carried was the cleansing tang of ocean salt. I drew in a deep breath of it, filling my lungs with its freshness.

Certainly, my sudden, sharp inhale didn’t have anything to do with the way a particularly vigorous gust of wind suddenly flipped Denise’s skirt most of the way up her thigh.

Well… okay. Maybe it did have a little something to do with that.

Maybe even more than a little.

_Damn._

“Oops,” she said, slowly smoothing her skirt down again with her other hand as she slyly added, “And now we see the real reason you dragged me over here.”

“You know it wasn’t,” I muttered, my shoulders tensing as the paranoia started trying to sink its claws into me once again.

“Yeah, I know.” She briefly again squeezed my hand, smiling gently at me. “Want to talk about it? Or should I just try to… distract you?” She waggled her eyebrows in a completely over-the-top manner, the sheer ridiculousness of it making me laugh even as warmth bloomed in my cheeks.

“You’re fucking incorrigible,” I told her, shaking my head. “And, trust me, you’re plenty distracting. Even when you’re not actively trying to be.”

“Such a sweet-talker,” she said, smirking. “I knew there was a reason I liked you.”

I rolled my eyes.

“And here was I thinking it was because you could make me blush.”

“Well, that too,” she said, shrugging carelessly. Her eyes narrowed, and she fixed me with a stern look. “But you haven’t answered my question. Do I need to lecture you again about using your words?”

“Fuck off, asshole,” I said waspishly. “I can use my words just fine, fuck you very much.” Of course, if I was honest with myself — and I mostly tried to be, these days — part of my irritation was due to being called on my evasion. Most of it, though, was at myself, for feeling the need to evade in the first place. I took a deep breath, held it for a slow count of three and then slowly breathed it out again, envisaging the lingering defensiveness being exhaled along with the air and being carried away by the breeze. “Sorry,” I said, giving Denise a sheepish smile. “I shouldn’t have snapped at you. I know you’re only trying to help.”

“That’s okay,” she said, mock-sadly. The expression didn’t last long, though, morphing into a sly smile as she continued, “I’m used to your filthy mouth, Princess.”

That startled a laugh out of me, which didn’t at all help my attempts to glower furiously at her.

“Aren’t you ever going to get tired of calling me that?” I asked, my voice still shaking a little with laughter.

“Signs point to no,” she said, in a voice full of smug, before looking sternly over her glasses at me again. “And you still haven’t answered the question.”

“I was just about to,” I protested, wishing I didn’t sound so fucking petulant. I pressed onwards before she could say anything about it. “And… I kind of do want to talk about it.” Apropos of nothing, I remembered the second question she’d asked me, and my face was suddenly made of fire. I cleared my throat unnecessarily and then, before I could change my mind, quickly said, “And then maybe a little distraction?”

Denise chuckled; a low, soft sound that seemed to go right through me, making me shiver in a way that was anything but unpleasant.

“I’ll see what I can do,” she murmured. It sounded like a promise. “But first, talk. What’s got you so jumpy? You weren’t anywhere near this on edge when we went out last week.”

“I know,” I said. “I don’t know why this is different. Maybe it’s because we’re outside. And there are so many people…”

I could feel myself start to tense up again, but Denise leaned into me, squeezing my hand.

“Forget about them,” she said. “They’re all doing their own thing. Focus on me.” I could hear the smile in her voice as she said. “Try not to think about the fact that my skirt just blew up again.” A moment later, she laughed and said, “Made you look.”

“Filthy rotten tease,” I grumbled.

“I’ll take that as a compliment.” She paused, and I looked up to see her tilting her head, studying me, her brows drawn together in the tiniest of frowns. “Do you want to continue, or should I stop pushing?”

I thought about it for a moment.

“I’m fine,” I said, and then grimaced. “Well, not fine-fine, but I want to talk.”

She nodded. “Okay. Take your time, though. Whenever you’re ready.”

I sighed, glancing briefly down at our clasped hands before staring out across the Boardwalk. I took a moment or two to get my thoughts in order before speaking, keeping my voice soft even though there was no way anyone would be able to overhear us without powers or tech.

“I feel like we’re in danger.” I paused, took a breath, held it for a three count, let it out again. “Because I still can’t believe that he’s really not out there any more.” It was pretty fucking obvious who I was talking about. “And I worry about you. About what he’d do to you if he knew we were… together.”

My breath hitched a little, and I had to blink against the sudden prickling in my eyes, relieved beyond all measure that I didn’t actually start fucking crying right out here in front of God and everyone. Inhale. Hold. Exhale. Inhale. Hold. Exhale. It helped. What helped more, though, was when Denise started rubbing the pad of her thumb in circles on the inside of my wrist, right above my pulse.

“And this is Brockton fucking Bay,” I continued, my voice steady again. “I know it’s better these days, but there are still people who think the way **he** does about girls like us.” I felt a distant spark of surprise that I’d actually said that without hesitating even a little. I made a mental note to tell my therapist the next time I saw her. “And I worry that someone like that will see us, and will try to do something about it. And I… I just couldn’t stand it if you got hurt. Especially if it was because of me.”

“Oh, Astrid.” Denise sounded sad.

I sighed heavily.

“I know it’s stupid,” I said. “I-” I broke off with an angry noise that absolutely wasn’t anything at all like a squeak as she blithely reached over and tapped me lightly on the nose. “What the fuck?” I demanded, rubbing at my nose as I glowered furiously at her.

“It’s not stupid,” she said tartly, seemingly completely unfazed by my death glare. More softly, she continued, “After everything you went through, it makes perfect sense for you to feel that way. And didn’t Yamada give you the same speech about the validity of your emotions that she gave me?”

“You know she did,” I said softly, before dialling my glare back up to grumble, “And you’re lucky I didn’t just put you on your ass right now.”

“You wouldn’t,” she said, with way more confidence than I thought was warranted, given our history. Before I could voice that aloud, however, she headed off any protest I could have made with a simple, and surprisingly heartfelt, “You trust me.”

I opened my mouth to speak; closed it again when the words wouldn’t come. I tried not to think about the fact that I must have looked rather like a fish right about now. I cleared my throat and tried again.

“Yeah,” I said, holding her gaze. “I do.”

Was it my imagination, or were her her eyes just a little wide; her cheeks ever so slightly pink? I wasn’t entirely sure why. She’d said it first, after all. So why did she look so flustered when I agreed with her?

“Huh,” she said, sounding just as distracted as she had when I’d flashed my abs at her earlier. “Right. Well, then.”

I waited a moment, but that seemed to be all she had to say.

_Weird._

“So, as I was saying,” I said, trying to pick up the thread of my thought. “I know he… I know my father can’t hurt me any more. I do know that. And I know we could defend ourselves if anyone else tried anything.” I gave her a lopsided smile, squeezing her hand a little. “We’re badass bitches, after all.”

“You’re damn right we are,” Denise agreed, giving me a fierce grin in return. “Bonafide action heroes.”

I nodded agreement, but then my smile faded.

“But, even knowing all that, I still keep looking for threats.” I sighed. “I’m sorry, Denise, I- Hey!” I rubbed my nose again. Not that the light tap had even come close to hurting, but I just couldn’t help myself. It was like a… a reflex or something. Fuck, I probably looked completely ridiculous. I made myself drop my hand, shooting another death glare her way as I snapped, “Stop fucking doing that! I might be a bitch, but I’m not a fucking dog.”

“It was a stupid apology,” she said, showing absolutely zero trace of remorse.

“You don’t even know what I was apologising for!” I protested.

“You were going to say sorry for spoiling our date,” she shot back tartly. I said nothing. She nodded in satisfaction. “Like I said: it was a stupid apology. You haven’t spoiled anything. And it’s actually pretty sweet of you to worry about me so much. Even though, like you said, I’m kind of a badass.” Her confidence seeming to falter a little, she said, quietly, “Do you want to go somewhere else? Somewhere less crowded, maybe? Or even- hey!” She glowered at me, rubbing her own nose where I’d just lightly tapped it. “The hell was that for?”

_Fuck me if she doesn’t look all kinds of cute right now,_ I found myself thinking.

What I said aloud, though, was, “You were going to say something absolutely fucking moronic.” I made absolutely no attempt to hide my smugness at getting to turn the tables on her. “No, I don’t want to head back home. I’ll be damned if I’ll let my dad or any of the assholes like him cheat me out of enjoying a date with my girlfriend. I promised I was going to kick your ass at Dance-O-Tron 9000, after all. And…” I trailed off, frowning, as Denise stared at at me with the weirdest fucking look on her face. “What?”

Had I said something wrong? Put my foot in my mouth somehow without realising it? Done something to piss her off? But… no. She was smiling. Kind of goofily, actually.

“You called me your girlfriend,” she said.

“Oh.” I thought about it. “So I did.” My chest felt tight all of a sudden, my heart pounding like a drum. “Was I… Was that wrong?” I guessed we hadn’t been together-together all that long, in the grand scheme of things, but we’d sort of been circling each other for a while before that. And, unless I’d got things completely and utterly wrong, we were definitely dating now. And there’d very definitely been kissing and stuff, so…

“Astrid. Breathe.” Denise’s voice was firm, and I sucked in a breath, automatically falling into the rhythm of inhale, hold, exhale until my racing pulse returned to a more sedate pace, and I was no longer having to fight the urge to hyperventilate. “And no, that wasn’t wrong.” Her smile broadened. “It wasn’t wrong at all.”

“Oh,” I said, again, and suddenly I was smiling too. “Good.”

“So…” Denise said, after what felt like a lifetime of staring into her sparkling blue eyes. “You really think you’re going to kick my ass at Dance-O-Tron?”

“You’re fucking right I am,” I told her, with some asperity. “Unlike some other so-called games I can mention, this one actually takes real skill. So, prepare to be-” Without any warning whatsoever, she just threw back her head and burst out laughing; full-throated peals of mirth that shook her whole body from head to toe. “What?” I demanded. “What the fuck is so funny?”

She shook her head, unable to speak for laughter. I scowled and waited her out. Eventually, though, her amusement died down to the point where she could actually speak. I thought she might have actually wiped a tear from her eye as she turned her gaze to mine.

“It really pisses you off, doesn’t it?” she asked, still a little breathless from all that fucking laughing.

“What, being laughed at? You’re damn right it does.” I tried not to sulk.

“That too, I guess,” she agreed readily. “And it’s just adorable when you pout about it.”

I shot her an offended look. “I absolutely do not pout,” I informed her, with what would have been great dignity and gravitas if I hadn’t immediately found myself adding, “And you’re annoyingly cute when you laugh. Even when you’re laughing at me.”

And… now she was laughing again. But softer, this time, and she sounded pleased when she said, “You really do think I’m pretty.”

I opened my my mouth intending to deliver a fitting retort — something about arrogance, perhaps — but what came out instead, was, “I think you’re beautiful.”

Huh. I really just said that.

I… I meant it, too.

And, as a bonus, it seemed to have stunned Denise into silence, at least temporarily.

She stared at me, her eyes wide and shocked, her cheeks flushed and her mouth hanging open ever so slightly.

_Still beautiful._

After a moment or two, she shook herself slightly and closed her mouth, searching my face for God knew what. Apparently, though, she found whatever it was she was looking for, because her sudden smile lit up her whole face.

“You say the sweetest things, Astrid,” she murmured. “And… you know the feeling’s mutual, right?”

I shifted uncomfortably and looked away. I mean, weird and bizarre as it seemed, I knew she appreciated certain things about the way I looked. I didn’t doubt that, not really. If nothing else, I had her reaction earlier — and on other occasions — for proof. But… beautiful? That was just sentiment talking.

Or maybe she really did need glasses after all.

Still, there was a kind of… warm feeling in my chest — as warm as the heat blooming in my cheeks — at the thought that she could look at me and see someone… someone she could actually feel attracted to. It felt… really fucking good, actually. But also… intense. And kind of weird. And…

_Ugh. Too many fucking feelings right now._

And yes, I knew every therapist I’d ever seen would be so disappointed in me for indulging that thought, but… fuck it. I’d done enough soul-baring today. It was time to get back onto more comfortable ground.

With that end, I met Denise’s gaze with a challenging expression.

“So, if you weren’t talking about being laughed at, what the fuck did you think I was pissed off about?”

Her brows drew together in a small frown, and for a moment I thought she was going to complain about the blatant change of subject, but she evidently got the message. No doubt it was a subject we’d be returning to on some other occasion, but for the moment, she plastered a shit-eating grin across her face and spoke in a tone of sheer, unbridled glee.

“It pisses you off no end that I’m better at video games than you are.”

“No!” I protested. “That’s not… I’m just saying, some games require more in the way of actual skills that others, and-“

“You are so competitive, I swear,” she said, laughing again. “And such a sore loser.”

“I’m not a fucking sore loser,” I grumbled. “You’re just an asshole when you win.”

“Which, you have to admit, I do a lot.”

I glowered at her. She smirked back.

“Maybe,” I conceded, somewhat sourly.

“Like pulling teeth,” she said, far too cheerily for my liking. “But it does make me wonder why you’d suggest visiting an arcade for our date.”

I shrugged. It felt a little awkward, and not just because Denise was leaning against my side and our hands were still clasped tightly together.

“You like video games,” I said. “And, I mean, I like them too.” I couldn’t quite stop from shooting her a sour look. “Even if I don’t win against you as often as I’d like.”

“It’s not the winning that’s important,” she said loftily, “it’s how you play the game.”

“Easy for you to say,” I muttered. In a stronger voice, I continued, “But we’ll see if you still feel the same way when I finally kick your ass.”

She studied me for a moment, a shrewd look in her eyes that I didn’t like one bit.

“You sound awfully confident about that,” she mused.

“Do I?” I answered carelessly, resisting the urge to fidget.

Her eyes narrowed. “Have you been practicing?”

“N- No,” I lied.

She stared at me for a moment, and then burst out laughing again. Because of course she fucking did.

“Oh, that’s priceless,” she gasped. “So, that’s what so you’ve been so mysterious about. You’ve been sneaking off to an arcade to practice so you can get good enough to beat your girlfriend at a ridiculous dance game. On account of how I keep utterly devastating you at everything else.” She shook her head, giving me a fond-looking smile. “That’s absolutely adorable.”

“Oh, fuck off,” I grumbled, or tried to, but the reminder that she was my girlfriend made the words come out sounding positively gooey. I rallied my crumbling resolve and aimed for something like dignity as I said, “And Dance-O-Tron 9000 is not a ridiculous game. It’s actually pretty fucking awesome. Just like my victory will be.”

I was expecting some witty retort, but she just looked at me thoughtfully for a moment, and said, “Astrid, do you like dancing?”

My heart leaped in my chest, but I tried to keep my tone casual when I said, “Yeah, I guess.” She kept looking at me, her gaze steady and uncomfortably perceptive. “It’s alright,” I tried. Still that silent stare. Slowly, she tilted her head to look over her glasses at me. _Oh, for fuck’s sake!_ “Fine! I love dancing. I just… Music is awesome, and physical activity is awesome, and combining the two is completely fucking awesome, okay?” Once I’d started talking, it was like I couldn’t stop, and the words continued to tumble out of me. “When Victoria went through that phase of dragging me out on blind dates, sometimes the dates would involve dancing. And it turned out that, well, I really fucking love dancing. I mean, I think I’d prefer taking the lead sometimes to being led but, even so, it was pretty much always the best part of the evening. Well, except for maybe the food. Some of those restaurants were really fancy and… and, fuck, now I’m rambling, please stop me before-”

“Stop, Astrid.” Denise’s voice was gentle, but it still stopped me in my tracks.

Thank fuck.

I took a deep breath, held it, let it out again.

“Thanks,” I muttered, thoroughly embarrassed. I looked out at the Boardwalk, not sure I could take being laughed at right now.

“Why didn’t you tell me?” The words were spoken softly. It… didn’t sound like she was fighting laughter right now.

I sneaked a glance, and found my gaze arrested by what looked like hurt in her eyes.

_Oh, fuck._

“I…” A thousand and one excuses ran through my head. It didn’t occur to me. It wasn’t that important. I’d forgotten. Many, many more, each more implausible than the last. In the end, though, I went with the truth. “I felt kind of silly, and I didn’t want you to make fun of me.”

Denise sighed.

“I wouldn’t,” she said, her tone serious. “Not for liking something. Well,” she gave me a small smile, “not in a way that would make you feel bad.” A brief pause; a hesitation, and then, “Don’t you believe that?”

“Of course I do,” I said. “And I was going to tell you. I was going to tell you today, in fact. You just kind of… caught me by surprise.” I sighed heavily. “I had a plan and everything. Get to the arcade, kick your ass at Dance-O-Tron, and then ask if I could take you dancing on our next date.”

The silence stretched long enough for me to start panicking in earnest, and then, to my surprise and relief, she smirked at me.

“Sounds complicated,” she drawled. “But then, it’s not like you’ve never overthought things before, is it?” She paused a moment, something mischievous glinting in her eyes, and then said, “That’s why I’m better at pranks, as well as at video games.”

“The fuck is that supposed to mean?” I asked, glaring.

She shrugged. “You like Rube Goldberg devices a little too much. But the best pranks are the simple ones.” Her smile turned sly. “Like the shower last week. That was a classic.”

“Thanks for reminding me,” I said icily, narrowing my eyes at her. “You realise, of course, I’m going to have my revenge.”

“Oh, Astrid, Astrid,” she purred, her voice sending pleasant little shivers through me. “You know that’s half the fun.” Had it gotten warmer all of a sudden? It occurred to me that I should probably muster up some kind of retort, but I seemed to have lost my voice right now. And my wits. Before I could find them again, she casually added, “And the answer’s yes, by the way.”

I blinked at her.

“Huh?”

“Yes, you can take me dancing.” She smiled, her eyes twinkling mischievously. “I’ll even let you lead. At least until I get bored.”

“Oh,” I said. “Well.” I wasn’t sure I could have smiled any harder than I was right now. “I guess I’ll just have to make sure you don’t get bored, then.”

“I guess you will,” she said, and then fixed me with a thoughtful look.

“What?” I asked.

“So…” She drew out the word.

I raised my eyebrows. “So?”

“Are you done talking now?”

Was I…? Oh, right. She wanted to know if I’d finished talking about my little freakout earlier.

I thought about it for a moment, and then nodded firmly.

“Yeah.”

Underneath everything, I was still on edge, a little, and probably would be for a while yet, but talking about it — and all the other stuff — had helped. And I sure as shit wasn’t going to let a little antsiness spoil a date with my girlfriend.

_Huh. How about that._

I had a fucking **girlfriend**.

A girlfriend who I suddenly realised was looking at me like I was a bacon sandwich and she was starving.

“Then,” she said, pushing off the railing, and moving to stand in front of me, “I believe I promised,” as she stepped in close, “a distraction?”

My heart skipped a beat.

“You know,” I said, striving for a casualness I in absolutely no way actually fucking felt right now, “I believe you did.”

She reached up to cup my face with the hand I wasn’t still clutching, close enough now that I could feel her breath on my lips.

“Just remember the rules,” she murmured.

I blinked at her, nonplussed.

“Huh?”

“You want to stop at any point, tell me. You tell me to stop and I stop, no questions asked. Okay?”

“Fine.” I was a little startled by how close to a growl that sounded, but most of my attention was laser-focused on the fact that her lips were right fucking **there** and we still weren’t kissing. But, even so, I made myself add, “And the same goes for you.”

“I know that, Astrid,” she said, and she sounded fond.

I did my level best not to sound impatient when I said, “So, we’re good?”

“Oh, yeah,” she purred, and then tapped me on the nose with her thumb.

I… may have yelped a little in surprise.

“Oh, you fu-”

But the rest of my words were cut off by her lips on mine, and then the only thing I cared about was pulling her tight against me and enthusiastically kissing her back.

In a distant part of my mind, there were thoughts, as there always were. Like, her lipstick didn’t taste at all like rhubarb. Like, we were going to go dancing. Like, I was going to kick her ass at the one game I was actually any good at. But none of that was important in the moment.

Here and now, which was where I was, fully and completely, there was only one thing that mattered.

The sun was warm, the breeze fresh and cool, and I was kissing my mischievous, infuriating, utterly amazing girlfriend. Who did, in fact, have fabulous legs.

_You know what? It really is an absolutely fucking glorious day._


	17. Dog Days

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Two girls bond over a dog, AKA the story of how Astrid met Bitch.
> 
> Non-canon omake set in the summer before Mixed Feelings.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning for on-screen mistreatment of a dog.
> 
> Opening line care of William Gibson by way of Neil Gaiman.

The sky was the colour of a television tuned to a dead channel: a bright, solid blue unmarred by so much as the merest wisp of cloud. I cast a brief, baleful glower upwards as I stomped my way through Brockton fucking Bay’s endless fucking alleyways. Normally I loved being out in the sunshine, but this baking heat was just too goddamned much.

_Hellfire and fucking damnation. What a fucking shit-tacular day this is shaping up to be._

Even sticking to the meagre shade as much as I could, the blazing sun beat mercilessly down on me, making sweat spring forth from every single goddamn pore. And although there was, technically, a faint breeze, it was as thick and fetid as the breath of some great beast, doing absolutely fuck all to cool me down. It just tugged at the many wisps of hair that had straggled loose from my ponytail, blowing them into my face. I cursed under my breath as I clawed it back, and then irritatedly yanked out my hair tie altogether, redoing the stupid ponytail as best as I could.

It was at times like this that I really wished Dad would allow me to cut my fucking hair. For a moment, I seriously considered just taking out my knife and hacking off my ponytail at its base, but an instant later I came to my senses. I was already on notice after my last fuck up, and given that summer vacation had only just begun, he wouldn’t have to worry too much about leaving visible marks. Best not to risk it. At least not yet.

(Not that anyone at fucking Winslow would give two wet shits if I turned up damaged. What was one more kid with bruises, or whatever, in the grand scheme of things?)

Anyway, I needed to pick up the pace. Dad was expecting me back soon, and he sure as shit wouldn’t be pleased if I was late.

(It felt there was a pressure, like a hand around my throat. I paid it no mind.)

The sudden crash of breaking glass snapped me out of my thoughts, stopping me dead in my tracks.

It came from up ahead, because of course it fucking did. I briefly contemplated just backtracking and taking another route, but in the end the desire to know what the fuck was going on won out.

_Intelligence is valuable,_ I reasoned.

I cautiously made my way towards the end of the alleyway, making use of the thankfully ample cover to mask my approach from anyone who might have line of sight. As I approached, there was another crash of broken glass, shortly followed by a dull thud. There were voices, too: male, adult, raised in raucous laughter. And, when I got closer still, I could hear high-pitched whining and whimpering noises punctuated with the occasional snarl.

I peered carefully around a pile of half-rotten wooden pallets to see a trio of men in their late teens or early twenties. Two of them were kind of scrawny-looking, but one was built like a brick shithouse. All three of them were laughing their asses off. As I watched, one of them took a long swig from a beer bottle and then suddenly hurled it across the courtyard towards a mangy-looking dog.

_Motherfuckers!_

It missed the animal, thank fuck, but smashed against the wall above the poor thing’s head, showering it with glass shards and beer. It yelped and tried to run, only to be brought up short by a rope around its neck.

Even as I told myself I should just turn around and walk away, my batons were already in my hands, and a moment later I was launching myself at the dog-torturing assholes.

_If they aren’t acceptable targets, then who the fuck is?_

Hopefully, the fuckers weren’t going to know what hit them.

Their laughter soon turned into yelping and cursing when metal hit flesh. Skinny Fucker One — the one who threw the bottle — collapsed like a sack of severed limbs, moaning and groaning and clutching at his stomach and groin as he sprawled on the concrete.

(I tried to ignore how good it felt to make the asshole scream.)

Skinny Fucker Two was tricksier, showing some semblance of situational awareness as he dodged, weaved and skedaddled away from me, fumbling at his waistband as he called me some very uncomplimentary things. Conscious of the fact that he was probably going for a weapon, I kicked out at his legs. I only managed to clip him, but it was enough to make him stumble. Unfortunately, Brick Fucker took a swing at me before I could follow through, forcing me to engage.

Bastard was strong, and his bulk made him harder to hurt. Worse than that, though, I could tell by the way he moved and held himself that the fucker had experience. Rather than smacking into joints and other weak spots, my blows landed on flesh and muscle; enough to sting — definitely enough to bruise — but nothing that would take the asshole down. And while I failed to do anything more than superficial damage to Brick Fucker, Skinny Fucker Two had recovered his footing, coming at me with a knife in hand.

Fucking awesome. Still, at least it wasn’t a gun.

_This was such a fucking stupid idea…_

Bit late for regrets now, though.

I weighed my options as I moved, striking out with my batons at any target that came into my range. Brick was skilled, but the knife was the bigger immediate threat, and I figured Skinny would go down easier. I went at him hard, disarming him by the simple expedient of breaking his wrist. He screamed like a stuck pig, the fight going right out of him. He didn’t even try to stop me taking his legs out from under him.

Wimp.

Once Skinny was out of commission, I could focus on Brick, who was proving to be a problem. Unlike the Skinnies, pain just seemed to piss him off, and he spewed unimaginative but vicious threats as he tried to use his greater reach, bulk and strength against me. Desperation flickered in the corners of my mind as I realised I was starting to flag.

_Why won’t this fucker just go down already?_

Despite the burning in my muscles, despite the aches and pains of old damage reminding me it was there, despite the hits I didn’t quite manage to avoid, I drove my body even harder, faking an opening to draw Brickinto over-committing. And when I had him where I wanted him, I jabbed the end of my baton into his throat, making him choke and splutter.

Disabling him got a fuck of a lot easier after that.

When it was over, a few strategic blows ensured the assholes three were too preoccupied with their own suffering to think about getting up just yet. Even so, none of their injuries were fatal, or even seriously crippling, so time was definitely of the essence.

I still took a moment to retrieve Skinny’s damn knife.

Ignoring my body’s protests — and the screaming of my survival instincts when I put my weapons away — I cautiously approached the dog, trying to remember everything I knew about about dealing with injured animals. Crouching down a little, I kept my movements slow and nonthreatening, murmuring nonsense in a low and hopefully soothing tone. It didn’t seem to help all that much. The poor creature was obviously maddened by its ordeal, alternating between growling at me and whimpering.

_Fuck._

There was no collar, and it looked like it hadn’t been in the best of shape in the first place, being rail thin with dirty, matted fur. There was some blood, and it was definitely limping, but I couldn’t really tell how badly it was hurt. Bad enough that it would be better off being put out of its misery? I could… I could make it quick. And a swift, relatively painless death might be the most merciful thing for it in the long run. On the other hand… I didn’t want to kill a dog! I wasn’t a fucking monster. (Despite Dad’s best attempts to turn me into one.) And the way it struggled and snapped at the rope leashing it to a drainpipe made it clear there was still plenty of fight left in the creature. On the gripping hand, what the fuck would I do with a dog? Dad was hardly going to let me keep it as a pet. But… maybe I could get it to a shelter or something?

First of all, though, I needed to get both of us the fuck away from here before those assholes found their balls and tried to make good on all the vile things they’d threatened to do to me. Which meant getting close enough to free it.

“I’m trying to help you, Dog,” I murmured, cursing internally when my frustration leaked into my voice. Judging by the way he snarled and snapped at me, Dog really didn’t appreciate my tone. Sighing, I backed up a couple of steps, glancing over at the pile of assholes to make sure they were still sprawled in the dirt where they belonged.

_I can’t keep calling him Dog. That’s ridiculous._

He seemed to have calmed down a bit now, so I started creeping forward again.

“Good dog,” I murmured. “Good boy. I’m not going to hurt you. I’m a friend. Good boy.” Inspiration struck. “Good dog, Sirius. Can I call you that? It’s a star, you know. The Dog Star.”

And now I was talking to a dog like he could actually understand my words.

_I’m a fucking idiot._

Still, on the plus side, the pile of assholes couldn’t see me blush and Sirius didn’t know or care. More importantly, though, he seemed to have settled down a little, huddling in on himself and whimpering.

_Poor little guy._

Vicious satisfaction flared up inside me at the thought that at least I’d taken some payback out of those motherfuckers’ hides. Unfortunately, they’d make me — and Sirius — pay for that with interest if I didn’t get a fucking move on.

Finally, finally, I got close enough to reach the rope tethering Sirius in place. He twitched and whined when I touched it and I froze, waiting until he settled down again before trying to unpick the knot anchoring the rope to the pipe. It was quickly apparent that doing so would take a fuck of a lot more time than I likely had. Brick was already starting to stir. Cursing the need to move slowly, I pulled out Skinny’s knife and started sawing through the rope. (I wasn’t going to fuck up my own blade if I could help it.) Fortunately, it was a pretty shitty rope, so the knife made short work of it. I was half-expecting Sirius to bolt as soon as his tether went slack. I supposed that would have solved the problem of what I was going to do with him, albeit not in a way I would’ve been at all happy with. But all he did was wobble to his feet and bare his teeth at me. He didn’t growl, though, so maybe that was a good sign. I fucking hoped so, because now I had to try and pick him up.

“Let’s get you out of here, Sirius,” I murmured, reaching slowly out for him. “I’m trying to help you, so please don’t try to eat my face. Easy, boy. Good dog. Good dog.”

He twitched and whimpered and snarled some more when I put my hands on his matted and mangy fur, flinching away from my touch like he expected more pain.

_Poor thing._

I paused there for a moment, hoping that would give Sirius the chance to acclimatise to my presence or whatever. Unfortunately, Brick Fucker picked that moment to find his voice, yelling something angry-sounding but largely incoherent. Apparently freaked the fuck out by the sudden noise, Sirius started prancing around, snapping and snarling at me.

How could such a small, skinny creature make so much noise? Half-deafened by the racket, I mumbled soothing nonsense, trying to recover lost ground, but he wasn’t having any of it.

“The fuck are you doing with that dog?” demanded a woman’s voice.

Acting on instinct, I shifted to face the newcomer, cursing myself for not noticing their approach. Unfortunately, that movement was apparently the last straw for Sirius, who promptly lunged forward and sank his teeth into my forearm.

_Motherfucker!_

(Control. Control. Control.)

I restrained my first, violent reflex, keeping as still as I could as I glared at the bitch who’d startled me. Not a woman; a girl not much older than me. I almost twitched again when I saw her companions, though.

_Fuck me, those are some mean-looking dogs._

“Saving him from those fucking assholes,” I ground out through clenched teeth, trying to figure out a way to get Sirius the fuck off my arm without either hurting him, or doing any more damage to me. “Or trying to. He’s not making it easy.”

As if to prove my point, the little bastard tightened his jaws, forcing me to swallow back a yelp.

Well, if he hadn’t broken skin before, he sure as shit had now.

Hellfire and damnation!

_I’m going to need a rabies shot. And a fucktonne of antibiotics. Fuck knows what kinds of diseases he might be carrying._

“Brutus, Judas, Lola.” The girl pointed at the pile of assholes. “Guard.” Three of the dogs peeled off, apparently to… stand watch over the stirring figures? “Duke. Walk.” She and her remaining dog started walking slowly towards me and Sirius. “You. Keep still.”

“The fuck do you think I’m doing?” I muttered, bristling at her tone, which was pretty much the same one she’d used with her dogs.

To my complete lack of surprise, she didn’t bother to acknowledge my response at all, her attention completely focused on Sirius. That was absolutely fucking fine by me, though. Unlike me, she obviously knew what the hell she was doing. Much as it pained me to admit it, this terse stranger was probably my best chance of getting out of this without getting seriously fucked up.

Well, unless she decided to set her own dogs on me. But I could cross that bridge when I came to it.

Seeing as I had fuck all else to do — and I wanted to be ready to move whenever the opportunity arose — I watched her as she worked. She was almost as tall as me, maybe a bit broader built but there wasn’t much in it, and she definitely looked like she’d been in a scrap or three in her time. Something about her seemed familiar, but I couldn’t quite-

Oh.

Rachel Lindt. Hellhound.

_Well, shit. I guess that explains why she seems to be so good with dogs._

This was just getting better and fucking better.

(When did she move to Brockton Fucking Bay? I hadn’t seen any new alerts. And was she using verbal commands because she didn’t want to blow her flimsy cover?)

After a seemingly endless relatively short time, Hellhound and Duke between them calmed Sirius down enough that he unclamped his surprisingly strong jaw from my arm.

“Back off slowly,” Hellhound ordered me, which I was already doing, dammit, but figured there was no point in saying that and pissing off the fucking cape.

(Capes were always threats. Always.)

Clutching my arm in an attempt to stop it leaking, I manoeuvred cautiously around the pile of assholes, giving their furry sentries as wide a berth as I could. If I could make it to the alleyway, I might be able to-

“Duke, guard.”

_Okay,_ I thought, as the dog in question expressed its dissatisfaction with my attempted retreat. _Guess I’m not going anywhere just yet._

Part of me really wanted to ask Hellhound what the fuck she was playing at, but my desire not to get mauled to death by dogs was more insistent. She’d picked up Sirius, who was whimpering quietly to himself in her arms rather than trying to take a chunk out of her.

I told myself it was stupid to feel betrayed.

Frowning, she studied me.

“What happened?”

Again, I strangled the urge to bristle and snap at her tone, keeping my expression and body language as neutral as I could.

“I found those fuckers tormenting Sirius, so I beat the shit out of them.”

Her scowl deepened and she glared at me like I’d just said puppies were good eating.

“He’s yours?”

My survival instinct was the only thing that stopped me telling her to go fuck herself sideways with a shovel.

“Of course he isn’t mine,” I told her, voice stiff and angry despite my best attempt to sound calm. “If he was mine, he wouldn’t be in that sorry-ass state.” Duke gave a warning growl, and I was startled to realise I’d started to clench my fists, about to move forward. I forced myself to stand down, clamping my hand around my bitten forearm again. “I wanted to call him something that wasn’t Dog, that’s all. He’s probably a stray.”

Hellhound’s mouth twisted in a contemptuous sneer. “Fuckers,” she growled. I readied myself for an attack — not that there was a fuck of a lot I could’ve done about it — but, to my surprise, it didn’t come. Absently soothing Sirius, who’d started squirming a little in her arms, she added, “Too many fucking strays.”

I didn’t say anything. Then again, she didn’t seem to need a response. The assholes three were starting to get vocal, though, although they’d discovered pretty quickly that attempts to stand or to crawl away were really not appreciated by their guardians. Hellhound glowered fiercely for a moment and then, abruptly, let out a shrill whistle, pointing at them.

“Brutus, Judas, Lola. Hurt.”

And then the air was full of snarls and screams. I stood there for a moment, frozen and staring, as the dogs did as their mistress commanded. I wondered uneasily if they’d go too far and kill the fuckers. When I managed to tear my gaze away, Hellhound was watching me.

“Got a problem?” she asked, her tone challenging.

“Fuck, no,” I said dismissively, meeting her gaze. “Fuckers had it coming.”

_Acceptable targets,_ I reminded myself.

The grunting noise she made then might have been amused, but it was hard to tell. I wasn’t currently being mauled by dogs, though, so that was something.

“Duke,” she said, and I was just starting to think I’d spoken too soon, when she added, “heel.” It took all of my self-control not to sag in relief when the dog obediently turned around and trotted off to its mistress. Not a moment too soon. He’d been sniffing at my bloody arm in a way I really hadn’t liked. “You too,” she said, looking at me. “Come on.”

“I’m not one of your fucking dogs,” I grumbled before I could stop myself.

She snorted.

“If you were, you’d be better trained.”

I came really fucking close to saying something that could well have gotten me killed, but a glance in the direction of the pile of assholes was enough to make me keep my mouth shut. I did, however, glare daggers at the arrogant cow’s back as I followed along.

_I’m not following her fucking orders,_ I told myself. _And I’m not afraid of her, even if she can have her dogs rip me apart without even needing to turn them into monsters first._

I was curious about what she wanted, that was all.

(I despised myself anyway.)

At it turned out, we didn’t go that far. Not far enough that I couldn’t still see and hear every bit of what her other dogs were doing to the three assholes.

“You didn’t hit him,” she said abruptly.

“Huh?” I replied stupidly, most of my attention… elsewhere.

“When Sirius bit you. You didn’t hit him, or try to shove him off you. Why not?”

Was this a fucking test? It felt like a fucking test. Or maybe she was just curious. Either way, it was probably a bad idea to piss off the already irritated cape by refusing to answer.

Anyway, I didn’t want her to think I was so pathetic as to have been paralysed with pain or fear.

“First of all, it wasn’t his fault he was scared out of his mind,” I said shortly. “Second, I didn’t want to hurt him if I could help it. Third, hitting him would probably just have driven him into even more of a frenzy. And, fourth, trying to shove him off risked making more of a mess.” I shrugged, somehow finding a thin smile on my face. “Anyway, while his teeth were stuck in my arm, he wasn’t chewing my face off.”

She stayed silent for a moment, apparently turning that over in her mind.

“What would you have done if I wasn’t here?”

Again, it was difficult to tell what was going through her head. But, in lieu of any better answer, I continued to stick with the truth. Mostly.

“Kept still, tried to calm him down.”

And, if and only if there was no other way, outright violence. But something told me that mentioning that would not be a great idea.

“Didn’t it hurt?” she asked, frowning in what was either puzzlement or irritation. Or maybe puzzled irritation.

“I’ve had worse.” The words emerged flatter than I’d intended.

She studied me again.

“Why?”

“Why what?” I asked cautiously. Because, cape or not, she could get fucked if she thought I was going to tell her why a relatively small dog bite wasn’t the worst damage I’d ever taken.

“Why interfere?”

Was she fucking serious?

“They were torturing a fucking dog,” I damn near growled, not trying to hide how offended I was that she’d even ask me that. “I wasn’t going to just leave them to it.” Even though minding my own business would sure as shit have been the most sensible thing to do. I glowered in their general direction. “Motherfuckers.”

She didn’t smile, but the lines of her face seemed to soften a little, and she nodded with what I was pretty sure was approval.

“Motherfuckers,” she echoed. It sounded like agreement. She whistled suddenly, making me jump a little despite myself. And, this time, I didn’t have any doubt about what that particular expression of hers meant. The bitch was amused at me. I glowered at her before I could think better of it, but her amusement didn’t fade even a little. Brutus, Judas and Lola left their prey, returning obediently to their mistress’ side. “You’ll need to disinfect that,” she said, nodding at my arm. “Might need antibiotics, too. Strays carry all kinds of shit.”

“I was planning on it.” I sighed. “I just hope I don’t end up with rabies.”

“He doesn’t look rabid.” She shifted her grip on Sirius a little so she could rootle around in a pocket, pulling out something with multiple cables dangling from it. Slipping her hand through the loop, she held it out, and I belatedly realised that the ‘cables’ were, in fact, leashes. “Clip these to their collars,” she ordered.

I fucking hated that she was bossing me around like she thought I was one of her dogs.

(I really fucking hated that my first instinct was to obey. Cape or no, she wasn’t my fucking commander. She didn’t have any goddamn right to give me orders.)

Hellfire and damnation.

“You could’ve said please,” my pride drove me to mutter.

She didn’t respond, her attention on calming down Sirius, who was stirring restlessly once again. Honestly, as galling as it was to be so completely dismissed, her ignoring my irritation was probably the best outcome I could’ve hoped for. Better that that pissing her off.

I glanced over at the moaning, groaning, bleeding pile of assholes, suppressing a shudder.

_Capes are always threats,_ I reminded myself. _Always._

Not that I needed the reminder.

When Brutus, Judas, Lola and Duke — who sniffed at my arm again with what I could’ve sworn was a hungry look — were back on their leashes, Hellhound set off without another word.

“Wait,” I was startled to hear myself say.

“What?” she snapped, glaring at me over her shoulder as she paused.

“Is Sirius going to be okay?”

Her face rearranged itself into a slightly different scowl, this one more concerned than angry.

“Don’t know,” she said gruffly. “Gonna do what I can.”

“Will you let me know how it turns out?”

From the look she gave me, you’d have thought I’d asked her to start tap dancing.

“Why?”

_It would be nice to know I’d managed to do something right for once._

Plus, I respected the little bastard. He was a scrapper.

I shrugged stiffly, not having the first clue how to put any of that into words, even if I’d wanted to.

“I feel responsible for him,” I said instead, surprising myself with my honesty. “I want him to pull through.”

I tried not to shift awkwardly under her gaze, standing straight and meeting her gaze like I wasn’t painfully aware of the four furry murder-machines — five if you counted Sirius — not more than a few paces away from me and under her control.

“Dog shelter on Woodbury Avenue. I help out there sometimes. Ask for Becky.”

“Understood,” I murmured, half-shocked she hadn’t just told me to fuck right off. “When?”

“Varies. Give it a week, though. I should know by then.” A sudden scowl twisted her face. “It’s just for this, though. Not an open fucking invitation to hang out. Start bothering me and I’ll fuck you up.”

_You’ll try,_ I narrowly stopped myself from sneering. Because while I figured I had a good chance of taking her in a straight fight, it wasn’t going to be a straight fight. Not as long as she had her dogs.

(Not as long as she had her goddamn powers.)

(Fucking capes.)

“I don’t want to hang out,” I said instead, still letting some of my annoyance show. “Social calls aren’t my thing, and even if they were, I have too much shit to do. I just want to know how Sirius gets on.”

“Hmm,” was all she said to that. I had no fucking clue what it meant. This time when she turned away, I didn’t call her back. I just watched until she and the dogs disappeared from view.

(I hated myself for the flare of relief I felt when she’d gone.)

I wondered uneasily if I’d made a mistake, asking her to tell me how Sirius got on — effectively asking her to let me contact her again — but I couldn’t quite bring myself to regret it. I already knew I was going to go and visit her the shelter in a week or so.

(I hoped I managed not to put my foot in it and fuck everything up. Especially given she was going to be surrounded by dogs.)

Pushing the thought aside for now, I carefully examined my bitten arm, running through my checklist of things I had to do. Make sure the assholes three weren’t about to die, text Dad to let him know why I’d been delayed, cover and bind the bite, and then make my way home as fast as I could.

I hoped Dad didn’t interrogate me too closely about how I’d managed to get myself bitten by a dog. If I told him it had happened because I’d leaped in to save some random stray from random assholes instead of minding my own fucking business… Yeah, no. What he didn’t know wouldn’t hurt me.

Hellfire and damnation.

Maybe I shouldn’t have intervened. Maybe I should have just taken another route home. Maybe I should have minded my own business and looked out for myself. It would have been the sensible thing to do.

And yet…

And yet.

I wasn’t sure I’d have been able to live with myself if I’d just stood back and done nothing.

(Anyway, I’d really fucking needed to blow off some steam, and those three bastards were the first acceptable targets I’d found.)

And, even though the poor little bastard had bitten me, I couldn’t really find it in my heart to regret saving Sirius.

Sure, Dad would discipline the shit out of me if he ever found out what an idiot I’d been. Sure, it felt like I’d only narrowly escaped being turned into dog food for Hellhound’s minions. And sure, there was a chance Sirius could have given me a nasty infection as well as a few new scars. But, despite all of that, I was actually feeling pretty fucking good right now.

_Maybe it’s not such a shit-tacular day after all…_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Taylor believes that Bitch arrived in Brockton (Fucking) Bay about a year before canon start. This is set in the summer of that year, when Astrid, aged fifteen, has just finished ninth grade at Winslow.
> 
> The Sirius appearing in this omake is not the one mentioned in canon, as that one came from a shelter and was her most recent acquisition. I came up with the name first, realised she had another dog called Sirius, tried to think of another one but Sirius still seemed like the most probable one for Astrid (the nerd) to choose on the spur of the moment. And she was definitely going to name him something.
> 
> Although Rachel prefers the name Bitch, Hellhound is her official name and the one that most people know her by. Presumably some of the people she's had run-ins with will know her as Bitch (or possibly just 'that fucking bitch,' but Hookwolf still calls her Hellhound at the Somer's Rock meeting. As she tended to move around before ending up in Brockton Bay, and official sighting alerts were issued by the authorities, I figured Astrid was likely to recognise her on sight, even if she didn't previously know that Rachel had moved to BB.


	18. Numbers Game (A Youth Guard's Lament)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A one-verse poem.

Uncounted hours of unreported overtime,  
Zero extracurricular activities,  
One unclaimed trust fund.  
And yet we’re the problem.


	19. Dog Days Two: Dogsbody

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Following her encounter with Hellhound in _Dog Days_ , Astrid goes to check up on the dog they rescued. (Or, Rachel gets handsy with Astrid.) Non-canon.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks to millionomakeMarauder (AKA frustratedFreeboota) for beta reading and providing sarcastic comments.

“You.” It was almost more of a grunt than a word, and the expression that accompanied it was distinctly wary as Hellhound — _Becky_ , I reminded myself — set the heavy-looking bag of dog food down on the scuffed grey floor of the kennel room and turned to look me up and down.

“Me,” I agreed, torn between wanting to snarl at her for that dismissive appraisal and needing to put some distance between me and the potentially hostile cape. I compromised on what I hoped was a neutral expression and stance. (Even though I kept a watchful eye not only on her, but on the dogs, and I made damn sure I was ready to move if I had to.) I waited a moment, but all she did was stare at me, so I continued with, “I’ve come to check on Sirius. How’s he doing?”

She stared at me for a moment and then jerked her head in the direction of one of the cages. “See for yourself.”

When she didn’t lead the way, I stifled my misgivings as best as I could and headed towards the cage she indicated, ants crawling over the skin of my back when she moved up behind me. I resisted the urge to reach for my knife, reminding myself that she hadn’t made any hostile moves; that she didn’t have any reason to attack me. (Then again, she was a fucking cape. Did she really need a reason?) Even so, I breathed a little easier when she moved up further to stand at my side. Given the presence of the dogs, though — caged though they were — I knew full well that sense of security was a false one, as flimsy and insubstantial as tissue paper.

_Fucking capes._

Sirius yapped and pranced a little at our approach, but I wasn’t sure if it was directed at me or Rach- Becky. (Fuck. I must’ve been more rattled than I thought if I couldn’t keep her cover name straight.) Some of the other dogs started up barking when he did, but a sharp command or two from Becky served to more or less quiet them down again. I couldn’t help wondering if it she’d meant it as a demonstration.

_Why the fuck did I agree to meet her at a dog shelter, of all places?_

Then again, she hadn’t exactly given me another option, and I couldn’t see her reacting at all well if I’d pushed for one.

“He looks better,” I said cautiously. His fur was clean and silky, rather than matted and mangy, although it was still a little thin in places, as was he. His front right paw sported a bandage, and there were a couple of other dressings on his body, but he was definitely in considerably better shape than when I’d found those assholes torturing him.

Becky grunted. “Better, but still fucked up.” Her face twisted in a grimace. “Assholes.”

“At least we fucked them up for what they did to him,” I felt compelled to point out, and then immediately second-guessed myself, wondering if she’d be pissed off at me for equating my meagre payback with the damage her dogs had wrought. But her expression softened a little, her eyes glittering with a vicious kind of amusement as she jerked her head in a sharp nod.

“Yeah.” There was just enough time for me to relax minutely before her gaze darkened again and I found my body thrumming with tension once more. “Those motherfuckers weren’t the only ones, though,” she growled. “He’s been hurt before. A lot.”

_Poor little bastard,_ I found myself thinking, my chest tight with mingled sorrow and anger at the suffering he must have endured.

“What’s going to happen to him now?” I asked cautiously, watching Becky covertly for any signs that I might have been overstepping my bounds. I tried to ignore the scalding rush of shame at how fucking twitchy I was right now.

_Caution isn’t cowardice_ , I told myself firmly, uselessly. _There’s no sense in picking a fight I can’t win. Especially without intending to_.

Hellhound was volatile, violent and quick to anger. Everyone knew that. And being mauled to death by dogs — monstrously twisted or not — sounded like a particularly unpleasant way to go. Not that there were any good ways, not really, but some were definitely worse than others. Right now, though, Hellhound, Rachel, Becky — she really didn’t look like a Becky — was studying me with narrowed eyes, her brow furrowed as if in thought. I fancied she seemed curious rather than pissed, but it was fucking hard to tell with her. When she spoke, her words were clipped and brusque.

“Why d’you want to know?”

The challenge in her voice made the hairs on the back of my neck stand on end, but I made myself hold her gaze nonetheless, keeping my own tone level and matter-of-fact.

“Like I said before, I feel responsible for him.”

Her lips twisted in a sneer and she surged forward, into my personal space. I held my ground, narrowly managing to stop myself from going for my knife.

“Is that why you’re here? Do you want to take him? You think you’ve got what it takes to care for a dog like him? Who’s been through what he has?”

“Fuck, no!” I blurted out before I could think better of it. “I can’t look after a dog, never mind one that’s been fucked up the way Sirius has. I wouldn’t even know where to start! The poor little bastard deserves someone who actually knows what the fuck they’re doing. And that sure as shit isn’t me.”

My heart leaped into my mouth, adrenaline screaming along my nerves as I tensed in anticipation of bloodthirsty snarls and strong, sharp teeth, but Hellhound actually seemed to… stand down a little.

“Least you admit it,” she said, seemingly at least a little mollified. She looked at me for a long moment, tension making the air viscous and thick, making it catch in my lungs so I had to struggle not to gasp for breath. And then she just… turned away.

I held in a sigh of relief. As she crossed the room to pick up the bag of dog food she’d set down at my approach, I just watched her, somewhat bemused by her apparent switch to indifference. When she started working her way along the kennels, filling the dogs’ bowls with food, I wondered if she’d actually forgotten I was there.

(I tried fruitlessly to shove down the hot flash of rage at such a blatant dismissal; tried not to consider whether she was any tougher than me, physically. I definitely tried not to figure out how quickly she could sic the dogs on me if I did start something. Not that I was actually thinking about starting anything. If I did, I doubted it would end well for me.)

“They’ll keep him under observation,” she said suddenly, as if the conversation hadn’t previously ground to a halt. “Try to make sure he doesn’t die. If he recovers, they’ll put him up for adoption, and if he’s really lucky, he’ll get picked up by someone who doesn’t fuck the job up too much.” She looked up from her task, fixing me with a stern glare. “Taking care of a dog is a full time job. Don’t you fucking forget it.”

“I know it is,” I replied, not quite keeping the snap out of my own voice. “That’s why I’m not fucking offering.” She just grunted and returned to her work. I stood there like an idiot, caught between the urge to fuck off out of there before I said or did something that pissed her off enough to set her dogs on me, and… I didn’t know what. But until I figured it out, standing around doing nothing while someone else worked was making my skin crawl. It felt… wrong. “Can I give you a hand?”

“You what?”

Becky was staring at me like she thought I’d gone stark, staring mad. She wasn’t the only one. _What the fuck was I thinking?_ But I’d said it now, and I sure as shit wasn’t going to take it back, so I squared my shoulders and met her confused glower with what was hopefully a level stare of my own.

“You heard. There are a lot of dogs to feed, and there’s no point in me standing around doing fuck all.” I paused to give her a chance to respond, but she just kept staring at me. I stifled the urge to twitch into a defensive stance. “Ms Davies — Pippa — in Reception said the shelter’s short-handed,” I continued.

Ms Davies had said more than that, seeming almost desperate as she stressed repeatedly how they always welcomed volunteers, how she’d be more than willing to take some time to show me around and explain what they did at the shelter. I’d demurred, of course, saying Becky was going to show me the kennels, but I hadn’t been able to refuse the pamphlets and parental permission papers that she’d practically shoved into my hands. Oh, well. I could always throw them away later. It wasn’t like I really had the time to volunteer at a dog shelter, not with Dad stepping up my training the way he had. (Icicles trailed along my spine. I ignored them.) Nor did I want to spend any more time than I had to around a violent and angry cape like Hellhound. And, like I’d already said, it wasn’t as if I really had the first goddamn clue about dealing with fucked up dogs. (So why the fuck did I feel a little… tempted?) Still, like I’d said, there was no point in me standing around idly while Becky worked.

After what felt like a fucking eternity, she finally spoke.

“Fine.” Her lips twisted in a distinctly malicious smirk as she added, “You can shovel shit.”

It was my turn to stare now, disbelief and anger warring for dominance inside me. The sting of scabs and scrapes pulling taut alerted me to the fact that I was clenching my hands into fists, and I forced myself to relax them again. Triumph flared in her eyes, stoking the fires of my temper, but I forced myself to push the rage aside and think my way through this.

“Sure,” I said, deliberately nonchalant. It was worth it for the look of surprise on her face.

_The bitch thought I was going to back down._

Well, she could go fuck herself. Sideways. With a…

“Where’s the shovel?”

* * * * *

It didn’t take Becky long to recover her composure. Annoyingly, she also recovered her smirk when she shoved the necessary implement into my hands. Thankfully for my blood pressure, the fucking irritating smirk faded back into what seemed to be her customary glower as she tersely instructed me in the finer art of kennel cleaning. I honestly would’ve thought it was fairly self-explanatory, but apparently there was a very specific order in which things were done. That was perfectly fine by me. Simple, precise instructions made everything so much easier.

(Far less chance of fucking up if I knew exactly what was expected of me.)

Apparently she’d already cleaned half the kennels herself; the ones whose food bowls she was now refilling. I idly wondered why she’d broken down the work like that, but I wasn’t curious enough to ask her. She didn’t trust me to handle the task of getting the dogs out of their cages so I could clean them, so she dealt with that part, which was perfectly fine by me. Some of those dogs did not seem at all friendly. (I tried to ignore the way the imprint of Sirius’ teeth in my arm itched beneath the bandages.)

The two of us quickly fell into a rhythm. Becky would move a dog into an empty cage and then return to filling food bowls while I cleaned the newly vacated enclosure. When I was done, she’d move the dog back again. It wasn’t too bad, actually. The actual work of cleaning out the cages wasn’t the most pleasant, but it wasn’t exactly hard. Also, there was a certain satisfaction to be had in doing physical work and doing it well, no matter what that work involved. It was fucking surreal, though, every time it hit me that I was working side by side with Hellhound, of all people. I tried not to think about it too hard. Unfortunately, that meant my mind was free to roam in other directions, which meant I kept thinking up one fucking question after another. Questions like, how long had Rachel Lindt been volunteering at dog shelters under a shitty pseudonym? What had she done about the parental permission slip? Did Ms Davies and the other people who worked here know who she really was? Was the dog shelter so desperate for volunteers that they’d all turn a blind eye even if they did realise?

_Then again, if Hellhound turns up on your doorstep telling you she’s going to help out at your dog shelter, would you really want to tell her no? And would you want to risk the inevitable collateral damage from turning her in?_

The questions just kept coming. It was a puzzle alright, but even though curiosity nagged at me like the bite on my arm, it didn’t come close to overcoming my survival instincts. So I did the sensible thing and kept my goddamn mouth shut unless I absolutely had to speak.

“Finished,” I informed her. “What should I do with the gloves and coveralls?”

“Laundry basket,” she said, pointing. I nodded and headed over there, stripping the protective gear off as I went. “You put the rest of the stuff away?”

“Of course.” I tried not to feel offended that she felt the need to ask. “Where can I wash up?”

“Are you fucking blind? There’s a sink right there.”

_No need to bite my fucking head off_ , I thought, stung by her tone.

“Just checking,” was all I said aloud. She grunted in response. I kept a surreptitious eye on her as I washed and dried my hands and double and triple-checked that I hadn’t made a mess of my clothes and shoes. As much as it galled me to admit it, I had to concede that she worked hard. No slacking off, no complaining, just utter focus on the task at hand. Not much of a talker, which suited me just fine. Arrogant bitch, but then she had the power to back it up, didn’t she?

(I tried to tell myself that envy wasn’t burning a hole through my gut right now.)

“The fuck are you staring at?”

Hellfire and damnation. I guess my observation wasn’t as surreptitious as I’d thought. As one part of my mind tried to work out if I could get to the door before being brought down by a pack of ravening dogs, I met her gaze with the most neutral expression I could muster.

“Wasn’t staring. I was thinking of asking a question, but didn’t want to disturb you.”

“What question?” she demanded, her chin pointing like an arrow, her lips pulling back a little to bare her teeth. I didn’t think her expression was meant to be a smile.

_Fuck. What should I say?_

I hadn’t quite thought this far ahead.

“Do the dogs get walked regularly?” My heart thudded painfully in my chest before my brain caught up with my mouth and I realised that wasn’t actually the worst thing I could’ve said. “I would’ve thought they’d be taken outside to do their business, but some of the cages were fucking disgusting.”

Becky’s scowl deepened, throwing some of the scars on her face into stark relief. I wondered idly how she’d broken her nose. (That twinge of some nameless fucking feeling inside me couldn’t possibly have been sympathy.)

“They’re supposed to be walked,” she said gruffly, “but there aren’t always enough people to do it. Especially when some **motherfuckers** just don’t show up for their shifts. And some of the dogs aren’t properly toilet trained yet.”

“I see.” A sudden, startling burst of temper kindled in my chest, burning hot enough to spill out into unintended words. “Wait. People don’t show up for their shifts?” Unprofessional assholes! Especially with the shelter being short-handed. “Motherfuckers,” I found myself echoing. I guessed Ms Davies’ somewhat impassioned speech had stuck with me. But what sort of asshole said they’d look after a bunch of dogs and then just… didn’t show up? “The dogs still need looking after. They don’t know or care that some fucker broke their goddamn word.”

And… maybe I was getting a little too worked up about this. But Becky was nodding with what looked like agreement, so maybe I hadn’t just swallowed my own foot.

_I should probably get going before I do._

I’d already stayed much longer than I’d intended. Dad wasn’t expecting me back for a while yet, but even so. I had things to do. I couldn’t afford to fall behind. But as I started to take my leave, Becky spoke right over me.

“You start refilling their water bottles while I finish up with the food.” Her tone was imperious; commanding. Like it never even occurred to her that I might tell her to fuck off. I hated that I’d started moving towards the nearest cage without even meaning to.

_It’s for the dogs,_ I told myself firmly. _Not her._

“You know I’m not one of your fucking dogs, right?” I muttered acidly, the need to make at least some concession towards salving my pride somehow outweighing my desire not to piss off the fucking cape.

“Nobody’s perfect,” she said.

I couldn’t stop myself from glaring daggers in her direction, but all she did was smirk.

_Fucking bitch._

I consoled myself with the knowledge that I would only have to put up with her for a short while longer. Soon enough I would be walking out of here, never to see her again.

I couldn’t fucking wait.

* * * * *

“You came back.”

I fancied there was a touch less hostility in Becky’s voice this time around, and maybe the once over she gave me was more appraising than dismissive. Maybe. Even so, my reply came out more defensively than I would’ve liked.

“You asked me to.”

“Said you could,” she corrected, scowling.

A stupid part of me wanted to point out that she wasn’t in charge here, but I kept that idiocy trapped safely behind my teeth. She was a cape and she’d apparently claimed this place as her territory. The balance of force was firmly with her, and that squarely trumped any kind of technical, legal authority.

“Whatever,” I said instead, trying for a casual tone. “Ms Davies took me through the basics yesterday, but she said that-”

“Pippa doesn’t know shit about dogs,” she interrupted, her voice dripping with scorn. “She just deals with the paperwork. **I’ll** teach you what you need to know.”

Irritation prickled along my nerves on Ms Davies’ behalf. Sure, maybe she wasn’t an expert, but she was obviously making an effort. And from the little time I’d spent with her over the past couple of days, I sure as shit wouldn’t fault her dedication to the Stay Pawsitive dog shelter. Even if I did fault whoever came up with that fucking stupid name.

“She told me to shadow you and the other volunteers for the time being,” I said, striving to at least pretend to myself that I had some measure of control here.

“They don’t know shit either.” Becky pronounced the words like a judgement, her lip curling in a sneer. “Anything they tell you, you check with me first. I’m not going to have those assholes undo any of my hard work training you.”

“Training me?” Whatever I’d been about to say was driven right out of my head by that last part, my indignation bursting out of me in words I never would have said if I hadn’t been so fucking pissed off by her patronising attitude.

“Yeah,” she said, seemingly oblivious to my ire. “Still, at least you seem to know how to do what you’re fucking told. And you don’t yap all day. That’s a start.” Torn between twin urges to punch her goddamn lights out and to stand straighter at the praise, I ended up frozen in place, choking on my fucking feelings. It was probably for the best. “Let’s get started,” she said, like the matter was settled, snatching up a coverall from the rack and chucking it in my vague general direction. I caught it automatically. “Put that on. You’re going to need it.”

I bit my tongue as I pulled on the coveralls, but I was unable to stop myself from glaring daggers at the back of her head. I was seriously starting to regret my impulsive decision to volunteer here at the shelter. If I hadn’t already given my word — if it hadn’t felt too much like backing down — there was a better than even chance I would’ve been out of the door already. But I was here now, and come hell or high water I was going to see it through.

_God give me strength,_ I prayed, as fervently as I could.

I had the feeling I was going to need it.

* * * * *

“So, how are you finding being a part of our Stay Pawsitive family so far, Astrid?” Ms Davies asked brightly, almost vibrating with good cheer. For someone who ran a dilapidated shelter full of fucked up dogs in a shitty part of town — in Brockton Fucking Bay, no less — she sure as shit seemed full of the joys of life.

“It’s good,” I said, awkwardly returning her smile. “I like working with the dogs.”

That wasn’t even a lie. Sure, some of them snapped at me occasionally, and some were more than a little mangy, but it kind of felt good to know that I was doing something — however small — to make those poor bastards’ lives a little better.

_Fuck knows someone needs to._

(I stubbornly ignored the little voice at the back of my mind warning me I was wasting time better spent training; better spent improving myself.)

“I’m glad you feel that way,” Ms Davies said, and I wasn’t entirely sure, but I thought she seemed relieved. “Becky certainly speaks very highly of you.”

I blinked at her more a moment, completely thrown for a loop.

“She does?”

Ms Davies winced a little, perhaps at the scepticism I couldn’t have kept from my voice if I’d wanted to, and promptly changed the subject.

“Ah, I hate to be a bother, but I don’t seem to have your parental permission forms?” My heart sank like a stone. I’d really been hoping she’d forgotten about that little detail. Or that she wouldn’t bother to chase it up. Curse her otherwise laudable conscientiousness. “I know I said there was some leeway while you were learning the ropes, but it’s been over a week now, and it does rather seem like you’re planning on sticking with us?”

“Yes, Ms Davies. At least, I’d like to.”

“Oh, we’d certainly love you to stay!” she said swiftly, her face lighting up with another of those dazzling smiles. “Don’t you worry about that, Astrid, not even a little. So, if you could bring in those signed forms ASAP?”

I made myself nod like the walls weren’t closing in.

“I’ll bring them with me tomorrow,” I promised, which I guessed meant I’d be forging Dad’s signature on them tonight. I sure as shit wasn’t going to be ask his permission to do something as frivolous as volunteering at a dog shelter.

“Excellent!” she said, beaming. “And please, Astrid, call me Pippa. Like I said, you’re part of the family now.”

“Okay, Pippa,” I said, striving for cheer even as unease plucked my nerves like violin strings. “Thank you.”

As I took my leave of her, I tried not to think about what Dad would do to me if he ever found out about this.

_I’m technically not breaking any rules,_ I told myself. _Technically._

I wasn’t fool enough to think that would save me.

(The shadow of my dumb, doomed escape attempt still hung over me, even a year after the fact. I could feel it coiling about my neck like a noose. It was a fucking long shadow.)

Better to just make damn sure he never, ever found out.

* * * * *

“Becky really must like you,” Mr Runs-at-the-Mouth said teasingly, when Sirius and I returned from our walk. My fellow volunteer had introduced himself as Nas, but his apparent inability to know when to shut the fuck up meant that he more than deserved the moniker.

“Could’ve fooled me,” I muttered, belatedly hoping he wouldn’t take my response as a sign that I actually felt like having a fucking conversation right now.

No such luck.

“No, I’m serious,” he said, flashing his teeth in what I thought was probably supposed to be a charming smile. “She lets you walk the dogs all by yourself without swearing a blue streak about your intelligence, your heritage and your character. From her, that counts as a serious compliment.”

“It’s true,” piped up Claire, or Chloe, or Cleo or whatever the fuck the useless little chit’s name was, wrinkling up her petite, perfect nose in disdain. “She won’t even let me brush them when she’s around. You should’ve heard the things she said when I brought in some toys for them to play with!”

“Some of those toys were choking hazards,” I pointed out, the bulk of my attention on getting Sirius back into his cage without incident. Nevertheless, I had to quell a stupid swell of something not entirely unlike approval. At least Chloe’s heart was in the right place. She really did care about the dogs. And then there was the fact that she hadn’t actually run away crying after that dressing down. Much as I hated to admit it, she actually had a spine under that prissy, perfectly coiffed exterior.

“I know that now,” she sniffed. “But she didn’t have to be so rude about it.”

“You’ll get used to Becky,” Nas assured her, leaning in towards her with another of those too-wide smiles of his. I tried not to roll my eyes at the way his arm brushed against hers, nor at the way she simpered and fluttered her eyelashes at him.

_This is a dog shelter, not a fucking dating service! Keep it in your pants, assholes._

Against my will, I found my attention drawn to the contrast between the darkness of his skin and the paleness of hers, words of warning almost spilling from my lips before I swallowed them back unspoken. _You’d better dial back that touchy-feely shit when you get outside._ You never knew who was going to take exception. But, in the end, I held my tongue. The pair of them lived in Brockton Fucking Bay. They knew the goddamn risks. _Well,_ I amended, _maybe not Chloe._ **She** probably danced through the world in a cloud of fairy dust and sparkles. But I bet Nas sure as shit did.

“If you’re going to fuck, take it outside,” Becky snapped as she stomped into the room, startling Chloe into jumping half out of her soft, pampered skin. Not to mention letting out an utterly ridiculous squeak. “But if you’re here to work, there’s always more shit to shovel.”

“There’s no need to be crude!” Chloe retorted, ignoring Nas’ attempts at pouring oil on troubled waters to glare at Becky. It made me think of a newborn puppy facing off against a veteran fighting dog. Luckily, rather than ripping her to bloody gobbets, Becky just sneered in her direction and promptly acted like she didn’t even exist, focusing on returning the four dogs she’d been walking to their enclosures. For her part, Chloe finally let Nas recapture her attention, and they returned to making eyes at each other.

I resisted the urge to pull a face at their shenanigans as I carefully petted and praised Sirius, being careful not to let any of my irritation seep into my voice or my posture.

“How was Sirius?” Becky asked. “He give you any trouble?”

“Not really,” I said. “He still seems to hate the collar and leash, but he settled down a bit once we actually got going.” Not that I faulted him for that dislike in the slightest. “And he didn’t try to take another chunk out of me, so I think that’s probably counts as progress.”

Becky’s lips twisted in an expression it took me a moment to recognise.

_Fuck me. Is she grinning?_

“Guess he didn’t get a taste for you, then,” she said.

“Guess not.” I was more than a little startled to find myself grinning back at her. I checked Sirius’ food and water bowls, pleased to note that they’d been topped up. Apparently Runs-at-the-Mouth and Tinkerbell actually had done something other than stare deep into each other’s eyes while Becky and I had been out. I petted Sirius again absently as I closed and latched the gate of his enclosure.

“Some people get skittish,” Becky said, apropos of nothing.

“Huh?” I said stupidly, noting the way her grin had faded into a thoughtful-looking frown.

“After getting bitten. Some people get scared. Others get mad. Blame the dog that bit them, blame other dogs.” The furrow between her brows deepened, the frown becoming a scowl. “Even if it was their own stupid fault they got bit.”

“Doesn’t seem much point in either,” I ventured cautiously, unsure what she wanted from me.

“Yeah, well, people are fucking idiots.” She studied me a moment. “How’s your arm?”

“Healing.” I pulled up my sleeve a little, showing her what remained of the bite. “Didn’t get infected, thank fuck.” She made a noncommittal noise. I hesitated a moment as I pulled my sleeve back down again, weighing the possibility that my next question would piss her off against my burning desire to know the answer. Curiosity won out. “Was it a test?”

“Was what a test?”

The words emerged gruffly, and there was a wary glint in her eyes, but she didn’t seem to be anywhere near the edge of outright losing her shit. Not yet, anyway.

“Handing Sirius off to me at every opportunity.” Not that I hadn’t interacted with the other dogs in the past few weeks, at least once she’d judged me competent to do so. But, more often than not, whenever I was assigned specific dogs to care for, Sirius was among them.

“Yeah.”

The blunt admission threw me a little, even though it really, really shouldn’t have.

“Seems a bit risky,” I said, unable and unwilling to keep the edge from my voice. “A bit unfair to Sirius if I had ended up having problems with him.”

“I was watching you. If you’d been stupid about it, I would’ve stepped in.” Another grin quirked her lips, fierce and feral; challenging. “Maybe after he had another go at you.”

I didn’t doubt she meant that. And it made sense. It did. If there was one fucking thing I understood in this life it was the need to overcome weakness; to push through the pain or the fear or whatever the fuck else was holding you back and emerge out the other side stronger for the tempering. Even so…

“You could have just told me,” I heard myself say, my voice low and angry, taking half a step towards her as I only barely stopped my hands from clenching into fists. “I would’ve understood. There was absolutely no fucking need to be sly.”

“You going to make something of it?” Her smile had vanished, but the challenge remained as she held her ground; chin up and jaw clenched.

The moment stretched like taffy as I thought about channelling all the frustration and fury of the past view weeks it into the cathartic release of violence. Part of me really, really wanted to. And yet… (She was a cape.) And yet I… I liked volunteering at the shelter. (No matter how fucking awesome it would feel in the short term, if I started something, like as not she would finish it. And I wasn’t anywhere near pissed off with her to make that kind of fallout worthwhile. Not yet, anyway.) I really didn’t want to get kicked out for fighting. And it wouldn’t be good for the dogs.

Anyway, this was hardly the optimal time and place to take her down a peg or three. If I did ever decide to go full steam ahead and damn the consequences, I sure as shit wouldn’t take on the dog-controlling master in the middle of a fucking dog shelter. I didn’t have a goddamn death wish.

(Well, not most days.)

So I swallowed my pride and stood down.

“Not right now,” I told her, trying not to bristle all over again at the gleam of satisfaction in her eyes. “But if you feel the need to test me again, fucking talk to me first. Or I **will** make something of it.”

(No matter how much I ended up regretting it afterwards.)

I couldn’t even begin to interpret the look she gave me then. Pissed, certainly. Eager, maybe? Appraising, possibly. But whatever might have been going through her head, all she said aloud was, “There are still dogs to walk. Better get on with it if you want to leave on time. Take Marigold.”

Caught off-guard by the reminder that Dad had plans for tonight, I flinched a little inside.

“Sure.”

Despite my best efforts, I found my thoughts circling back to the subject of those plans over and over again as I prepared Marigold for her walk. It was like poking a loose tooth, or maybe pulling at a scab. I knew picking at it wasn’t going to help in the long run, but I just couldn’t help myself. I didn’t know what he had planned for me, but I knew it wasn’t anything good. And I also knew one other thing.

_I really can’t afford to be late._

* * * * *

Marigold started whining around the same time that I heard the loud barking from up ahead.

I quickened my steps, hurrying the rest of the short distance to the shelter. Rather than go barging straight inside, though, I took a moment to tie Marigold up in the small yard out back, firmly ordering the now-agitated dog to stay. Whatever the fuck was going on in there, I doubted adding another barely-trained dog into the mix would help matters.

When I opened the door, it was like slamming head first into wall of sound. A roomful of dogs all barking at once was fucking loud. Not just barking, either, but growling and snarling too; a whole fucking cacophony stabbing straight through my ears to lodge deep in my hindbrain, making my skin prickle with the need to turn tail and run. But instead of listening to that instinct, instead of doing the sensible thing and putting as much distance as I could between me and the source of that terrible, terrifying racket, I squared my shoulders and strode towards the chaos.

My first impression was a riot of movement and colour. Furred bodies crashed into each other like waves slamming against the shore. Bared teeth and red-flecked muzzles; patches of raw wet flesh standing out starkly against black and brown fur.

_Fuck me. They’re going to kill each other._

I was so busy staring at the fighting dogs that it took me a moment to register that Becky was right in the middle of the fracas, holding onto the back end of Max — a German shepherd — with grim determination as she yelled commands. It looked like she was trying to bodily drag him away from the other dog, a Rottweiler I didn’t recognise. Seeing her sent a jolt of electricity through me, snapping me out of whatever it was that had held me paralysed, mesmerised, useless.

“Becky!” I called out. “What can I do?”

“Get the hose. Spray them.”

My body was in motion before my mind caught up, but that was probably for the best. Adrenaline pricked my skin with needles and pushed my heart into overdrive as it hit me that there was no barrier between me and the fighting dogs; that there was nothing stopping them if they decided to go for the idiot with the hose.

Hellfire and fucking damnation!

_I’d better not end up getting bitten again for this._

They both jerked as the spray of cold water slapped against their bodies. It wasn’t much of an opening, but Becky leaped into action, shoving off hard with her legs to practically throw herself and Max backwards.

“Grab that one!”

Part of me wanted to balk, but I shoved that cowardly impulse aside, along with whatever weakness made my hands shake as I dropped the hose — no time to turn it off — and leaped for the Rottweiler, wrapping my arms tight around his back legs in the way I remembered from something I’d read on the internet. His front paws scrabbled at the ground as I lifted, and he whipped his head back and forth, teeth clacking together as he apparently refused to let a little thing like not being able to reach stop him doing his level best to take a chunk out of me. I tightened my grip.

“What now?” I asked; too loud, too high-pitched and more than a little desperate.

“Hold on. Don’t get bit.”

“The fuck do you think I’m trying to do?” I gritted out through clenched teeth, struggling to keep my balance as my foot hit a wet patch and nearly went skidding out from under me. There was no reply. I really fucking hoped there was another part to this plan, because this furry bastard had definitely transferred his murderous rage to me, and the minute I lost my grip I would be well and truly fucked.

_Guess I’d better fucking hold on tight, then._

After what felt like a goddamn lifetime — easily long enough for my imagination to come up with about a gazillion helpful images of the kind of damage this vicious, angry motherfucker of a dog could do to me if he got the chance — I saw movement in my peripheral vision. Almost before I had time to realise that I hadn’t been abandoned, that I wasn’t totally fucked after all, Becky darted in and slipped something over the dog’s head, wrapping her arm around his neck when he tried to shake it off, managing to hold on long enough to fasten what I now recognised as a muzzle.

“Help me get him into the cage,” she said breathlessly.

My throat seemed to have seized up, so I just nodded wordlessly. The furry fucker was still struggling and snarling, but between the two of us we managed to wrestle him into the enclosure and shut him in.

“Fuck me,” I heard myself murmur, having apparently regained my powers of speech. “What the fuck was that about?”

“No time,” she said tersely. “Max is hurt bad. Help me with him.”

She was moving before she’d even finished speaking, grabbing a first aid kit and stomping towards another cage. I had so many fucking questions right now, but I swallowed them back and fell in with her, trying to ignore the way my stomach twisted when she slipped the latch and opened his enclosure door. But he didn’t try to tear our faces off, didn’t even try to leap at us. He just curled up in a bloody, battered heap and whimpered quietly to himself. My heart went out to the poor fucker, my sympathy deepening as Becky and I started to check him over and the full extent of his injuries became clear. My breath hissed through my teeth as I carefully wiped away some blood and saw the damage it had been hiding.

“That’s going to need stitches,” I said, relieved that my voice didn’t shake. “But in the meantime, keep pressure on the wound.”

I only belatedly realised I was giving Hellhound an order. But she didn’t object; didn’t even glare at me as she followed my directions. All she said, was, “You’ve done this before.”

It wasn’t really a question, but I answered it anyway. “On humans, not dogs. I’ve been researching dog biology since I started volunteering here, but I’ve got a long way to go.”

Becky grunted. I had no idea what it meant, or if it even meant anything at all. I wondered why she wasn’t using her powers. I wondered if they would even help enough that it would be worth blowing her cover here. A shadow fell over me and I looked up to see Nas standing there, his usual grin gone as if it had never even existed.

“The vet’s coming,” he said. “Maybe half an hour or so. I’ve calmed down the other dogs as best as I can, but they’re still agitated.” I guessed that explained why the frenzied barking had now largely died down. He hesitated, and then said, “The new dog looks hurt too, but he gets riled up whenever I get close to the cage. I don’t know what to do.”

Becky’s lips tightened.

“Can you deal with Max’s injuries by yourself?”

It took me a moment to realise she was talking to me. I wanted to say yes, I really did, but…

“I need another pair of hands. He’s losing a lot of blood.”

“Fine.” She jerked her chin at Nas. “Switch with me. Do exactly what she tells you.” She paused briefly, maybe for emphasis. “ **Don’t** fuck up.”

That last part was directed at both of us.

* * * * *

Déjà vu gave everything a distorted, surreal air as I watched pink water swirl down the drain, my hands feeling almost like they belonged to someone else as they lathered, scrubbed and rinsed once, twice, three times, making extra sure to get any flecks out from under the nails. Those were a bastard and a half to deal with once they’d had time to dry.

“You’re so calm.” The voice seemed to come from far away, and I might have startled at the sound if I hadn’t been tracking the footsteps as they approached me. “How are you so calm?”

Nas, I reflected, did not sound calm at all.

“No point in losing my shit,” I told him, finishing up with the sink. “It won’t help anything.” If he said anything in response, I couldn’t hear it over the sound of the hand dryer. When I turned from the dryer to the alcohol gel dispenser — it was running low, I noted absently — he was just staring at me like I’d started speaking in tongues. “What?” I asked.

He opened his mouth, closed it again, shook his head. “Never mind,” he muttered, going to wash his own hands. “Do you think Max is going to be okay?”

“Hard to say,” I said, unable to keep from casting an eye in the direction of the vet’s room. “I think he’ll live, as long as the vet knows their shit. But, okay?” I shrugged, frowning as I felt something twinge in the back of my neck. “Who the fuck knows?”

Now I was paying attention to my body again, I could feel the familiar, minor pangs and cramps that came from sudden exertion followed by spending too long in the same position. I shook off a sudden flash of memory — straining to keep a ravening dog from breaking free and ripping me to pieces — and set about dealing with the irritation.

“What are you doing?” Nas, again. He sounded positively befuddled.

“Stretching.”

“Oh. Okay.” A few minutes went by. The tap shut off, and then the hand dryer started up. A short while later, that shut off too. I finished my stretches and headed for the door. “Are you leaving?” Nas asked.

“Bringing Marigold in. I left her tied up outside.”

“That was… probably for the best.” He seemed really fucking disturbed all of a sudden. Probably because he, like me, was imagining how much more of a clusterfuck it would have been if she’d also gotten involved in the fight.

Marigold seemed a little disgruntled with me for abandoning her in the yard, but she came along readily enough. Once she was ensconced in her enclosure with water, food and her favourite chew toy, she’d forgiven me enough to butt her head against my hand in the way she did when she wanted to be petted. I obliged her briefly before shutting her safely in her cage. By the time I’d finished with Marigold, Chloe had emerged from wherever she’d been hiding — probably the bathroom, given the direction of her approach — and was talking quietly to Nas. Well, mostly listening to him talk.

Whatever.

I set about tidying up the kennel area, which really fucking needed it. Surprise pulsed dully within me as Nas and Chloe came to help, but I wasn’t complaining. There was always shit to do around here.

“I’ve never seen dogs fight like that before,” Nas said, apropos of nothing. “I mean, sometimes they snap at each other, or at us, but that was…” He shook his head. “They were really going at it. I’ve never seen anything like that before.”

“I have,” I said quietly.

He paused in mopping the floor — the water there was also pink-tinged — to stare at me. “You have?”

“Yeah.” He stared at me some more, but didn’t ask the question that was written all over his face. Probably just as well. I wouldn’t have answered it if he had. I did have a question of my own, though. “So, what happened?”

“Oh. Right. You were out with Marigold.”

“Yeah.” I waited, but Nas didn’t say anything else. “So?” I prompted.

He drew in a breath, but Chloe was the one who spoke.

“It was my fault,” she said, in a quavering, distraught voice. She looked like a ghost of her former self, her normally pale complexion almost chalk white with shock. The exception was her eyes, which were swollen and red. “I just… Someone brought Buster in — that’s the name on his collar, Buster — and Pippa asked me to get him set up in a kennel while she tried to track down his owner. He seemed well-behaved enough, so I didn’t think it would be a problem. It never occurred to me to check first to make sure that none of the dogs were out.”

“I was grooming Max,” Nas put in, “and when Buster set eyes on him, he just-”

“He ripped the leash right out of my hand,” Chloe cut in. “I don’t think I could have stopped him even if he hadn’t caught me by surprise.” She shook her head, something oddly helpless about the gesture. “He just went for Max and… and…”

“Let me see your hand.”

She stared at me. “What?”

“You said Buster ripped the leash out of your hand. Does it hurt?”

“Um, stings a little, I guess.” She uncurled it; held it out to me, palm up. “Oh.” There was a stripe across her palm where the skin had been scraped raw. Just surface damage, but there was no sense in her risking infection by leaving it untreated.

“Come on,” I told her. “Let’s take care of that.” She twitched a little as I cleaned and disinfected the scrape, but didn’t complain. Nas hovered worriedly by her side, reaching out to clutch her other hand when she let out a soft, pained sound. I resisted the urge to roll my eyes. “All done,” I told her, taping the dressing in place. Don’t get it dirty.”

“Thank you,” she said, and irritation flared in me as she looked up at me with those huge, damp eyes of hers.

“It’s nothing,” I said gruffly. “Let’s get back to work.”

Silence reigned for a while after that. Slowly but surely, the sense that none of this was quite real, that I was just watching from a distance while my body did things of its own accord, started to fade. The world closed in around me again, the weight of it bringing me back down to earth with a thump.

_Fuck me. That could have been bad. It… I could have gotten seriously fucked up._

I didn’t want to think about it. I didn’t want to imagine what could have happened if I’d lost my grip on Buster. I most certainly didn’t want to feel the phantom sensation of teeth closing on my flesh. My hands wanted to shake. I refused to let them.

_It didn’t happen,_ I told myself firmly. _It all turned out fine in the end._

Well, for me, anyway. Max, though…

Hellfire and fucking damnation. I hoped with all my heart that the vet could save him.

(I prayed with all my soul that I hadn’t fucked up somehow while I was trying to help him.)

I wasn’t sure how much time passed until the vet finished his work, but when he was done, things got busy again as Becky roped me and Nas in to help her and the vet — I never did find out his name — to get Max and Buster into their respective recovery and isolation enclosures. The job was made both harder and easier by the fact that both dogs were woozy from anaesthetic. Pippa hovered anxiously until we were done, and then she and the vet disappeared off into her office. Presumably they had paperwork to deal with.

“Are they going to be okay?” Chloe asked, before I could.

“Dunno,” Becky said gruffly, and it must have been a measure of how distracted she was that she didn’t even sneer at Chloe. “Too early to tell.”

“I thought Buster wasn’t all that badly hurt,” Nas said.

“He wasn’t. It’s his temperament they’re worried about.” Her face twisted up like she was about to spit. Or bite someone. “Fuckers are talking about maybe having to put him down.”

“Will they?” I asked.

“Not if I can help it.” Her tone was grim, and I wondered uneasily how close she was to deciding she didn’t care about this civilian cover of hers any more. In my peripheral vision, I saw Chloe step forward and open her mouth, only for Nas to halt her with a hand on her arm and a warning headshake. It was probably for the best. Confession might have been good for her soul, but it would have been downright fucking disastrous for her body if Becky got it into her head to discipline her for her fuckup. Especially now, with emotions running high.

“I’m going to head out,” Nas said suddenly. “Are you coming, Chloe?”

“Y- yeah,” she replied hoarsely.

I was the only one who responded to their subdued goodbyes.

“I guess I should get going too,” I murmured, as they disappeared from view. “Unless you need me to stay?”

For a second, I didn’t think Becky had heard me, but then she shook her head. “It’s fine. I’ve got it.”

“Okay. Bye.”

“Astrid.”

My name sounded alien and strange in Becky’s voice, stopping my in my tracks. It was the first time she’d ever used it. I swiftly concealed my surprise, turning to face her with what I hoped was a neutral expression.

“Yeah?”

“You did good today.”

Warmth kindled in my chest, pride burning away my weariness and misgivings and second-guessing my every action. I felt oddly light, almost like I was floating.

“Thanks,” I said softly. “That means a lot, coming from you.”

Becky rolled her eyes, but the corners of her lips twitched in what I fancied was a pleased smile, and her voice, although gruff, wasn’t sharp-edged with scorn when she said, “Don’t you get fucking mushy on me. Anyway, didn’t you have an appointment, or some shit?”

My eyes flew wide, my heart lurching painfully in my chest as my blood turned to ice in my veins.

“Fuck,’ I breathed, shaking off the paralysis to fumble my phone out of my pocket with stiff, clumsy fingers. The display told me two things. One, I was late as shit. And two, I had a fucktonne of messages and missed calls, all of them from my father. “Fuck!” I said again, louder. “Hellfire and damnation.”

“What-“ Becky started to say, her expression confused, but I didn’t have time for this right now, and so I was already turning away.

“Got to go,” I said abruptly. “I’ll see you tomorrow.”

_I hope._

* * * * *

I took a moment to adjust my stance before picking up the bag of dog food, ensuring that my weight was evenly distributed and that I wouldn’t need to twist or strain to reach it. I bent my knees, making sure to lift with my legs, not my back. I still had to bite my tongue as what felt like my whole fucking body decided to protest the movement.

_I can do this,_ I told myself grimly. _It’s fine._

I kept on telling myself that.

(Shame scalded me down to my bones when I caught myself half-wishing that Nas or even Chloe was in today so I could palm this job off on someone else. Not that I would, of course. But a weak, stupid, childish part of me was still kind of… hoping. I buried it as deep as I could.)

I was moving so slowly and stiffly that I wasn’t even close to done with the task before Becky returned with the dogs she’d been walking. I saw her frown out of the corner of my eye, and hated myself for the way I flinched inside. She didn’t say anything, though, so I continued filling food bowls and occasionally biting my tongue.

Once Becky had got the last dog back in its enclosure, she turned to me and started to speak, only to break off, scowling fiercely, as I glanced in her direction.

“The fuck happened to you?” she demanded.

“Nothing,” I said, hoping to brazen it out. Apparently I was shit out of luck there. Her eyes narrowing, she moved towards me, and I quickly amended my answer to, “I did something stupid. I don’t want to fucking talk about it.”

Fuck, I didn’t even want to think about it if I could avoid it. Unfortunately, my sorry skin was covered in reminders. It was also prickling with the knowledge that Becky was too close, too fucking close. Everyone knew that letting a cape get close was a bad fucking idea, because the last thing you wanted was for them to get their goddamn hands on you. If they got their hands on you it was over, it was all over, you were helpless, you were completely fucked, and she was reaching towards me and-

The next thing I knew, I was smacking her arm aside and shoving, hard, then sweeping out a leg, and she might have been almost as tall as me, might have been a little broader, might even have been a fucking cape, but I’d trained for this shit; been training every day of my life and… and…

_Fuck me, I just knocked Hellhound on her ass. In the middle of a fucking dog shelter._

I was so fucked. But although some weak, cowardly part of me wanted to apologise, wanted to throw myself on whatever it was that passed for her mercy, that part wasn’t in the driver’s seat right now — wouldn’t ever be if I had anything to say about it — so instead I met her glare for glare and spat, “Don’t you fucking touch me. You don’t get to put your hands on me. I’m not one of your fucking dogs. You just… You… keep your fucking hands to yourself.”

(It took everything I had to keep my own hand away from my knife.)

I was so tense it felt like I was vibrating on the spot, like my joints might pop under the strain. Any moment now, I expected dogs to break free of their cages; to turn into giant, mutant monstrosities and tear me to pieces. But it didn’t happen. Instead, Hellhound held my gaze as she got to her feet, her expression as black as a thundercloud. Her fists were clenched so tightly her knuckles were bone white, and she bore down on me like an oncoming storm. I stood my ground, of course I did, but that weak, pathetic, despicable part of me had somehow got a hand on the wheel and when I saw her start to shift her weight in a way that could only mean one thing, my stupid body… flinched. It was just for an instant, and I immediately shook the weakness off again, squaring up like I was certain I could take her, powers and all, but it was too fucking late.

She’d noticed.

Her stance softened fractionally, her hands uncurling as she nodded with what must have been satisfaction. Mingled humiliation and self-loathing burned like acid in my veins; far worse a pain than any physical damage could ever be. I really fucking **hated** being humiliated.

“One,” Becky growled, apropos of nothing.

“One what?” I snarled back.

“You get one fucking shot. That was it. And you only get that because of what you did yesterday. I won’t give you another one.”

“Then don’t fucking touch me.”

I didn’t bother wondering if she was serious. What would have been the point? If she really wanted to fuck me up, it wasn’t like I could stop her. But I would be damned if I was going to roll over just because she was a fucking cape. I still had my pride, as dented and battered as it was.

Her eyes narrowed, her expression oddly thoughtful given the circumstances, maybe even speculative. I didn’t like it one bit.

“Could’ve just said that,” she said.

“I did say it. And I’m saying it now.”

She snorted and turned her fucking back on me. I barely stopped myself from going for her just on general principles.

“You’re good to work?” she distracted me by asking.

“The fuck do you think I’m doing?” The words slipped out before I could even think of stopping them, but I made myself stop and take a breath, forcing myself to dial it back. “It’s just surface damage,” I continued, when I was sure I had my voice under control. “I can do whatever needs to be done.”

I suited action to words by forcing myself to continue with my task. I ket a wary eye on Becky just in case she had a change of heart about payback for being knocked on her ass, but all she did was ready the next batch of dogs for their walk. I did catch her watching me, though, as evidenced by the way our gazes crossed a few too many times to be mere coincidence. Her attention had an almost physical weight, pressing down on me like a burden. I wondered what she was looking for.

_Why the fuck did I flinch? Just because she was going to hit me? Fucking pathetic._

(Even if I couldn’t stop her, there were far worse things than being smacked around. Far, far worse things.)

I wondered how much she despised me right now.

It couldn’t have been anywhere near as much as I despised myself.

* * * * *

The bag of dog food slipped through my clumsy fingers when I tried to set it down in the storeroom, almost spilling its contents across the floor, and I clenched my teeth on a curse. I had to swallow another curse when biting back the first one managed to set my cheek and jaw throbbing again. It didn’t really hurt that much — just surface damage; strictly cosmetic — but it was just… fuck. Every time I thought about it, my stomach twisted queasily and my chest felt tight, like there wasn’t enough air in here. Dad never touched my face. Not unless I really, really, **really** fucked up.

_Well, I guess open defiance counts._

Goddamnit! I’d already been guilty of disobedience. What did I think would happen if I added wilful disrespect to my list of crimes? But he’d kept pushing me and pushing me and I… Hellfire and damnation, I’d pushed back. What the flying fuck had I been thinking?

The question echoed oddly within me, everything seeming strange and off-kilter. I fucking hated this, hated these restless, uneasy… **feelings** that slithered beneath my skin like snakes.

I flat out refused to think about this any more. There were dogs to take care of. The dogs were much more important than my stupid fucking feelings.

_And Hellhound trusts me to look after them._

For some reason, my steps seemed a little lighter and easier as I closed the storeroom door behind me and headed for the kennels.

Sirius was agitated again, turning around restlessly in his enclosure and alternately growling, barking and whimpering to himself. He’d been on edge ever since yesterday’s fight. A few of the dogs had, actually, but Sirius was worse than most. I watched him for a moment, trying to figure out the best thing to do. He had plenty of food and water, he’d been walked already, and he was clean. His injuries seemed to be healing well enough, although he would likely be rail thin for a while yet. He was limping a little, but that was at least partly due to old damage, badly healed. The limp would probably always be with him.

(I ignored the way my wrist twinged in sympathy at that thought. It wasn’t broken or anything. It was fine. Just a minor sprain.)

My heart jumped a little as I opened the enclosure and stepped inside, closing the gate behind me in case Sirius made a break for it. It jumped again when he bared his teeth at me and growled, low and menacing.

“Easy, Sirius,” I said, in as soothing a voice as I could manage. “It’s alright. Everything’s alright.” I advanced slowly, pausing when he twitched. Keeping my eyes on him, I bent to scoop up a discarded squeaky toy, unable to stop my breath hissing through my teeth as my back and ribs objected to the movement. I ignored my body’s weakness as best as I could, slowly and carefully holding the toy out to Sirius. “Do you want this?”

He looked to the brightly coloured, if somewhat worn and battered, toy, dancing forward and then back again as if he couldn’t make up his mind what to do. I cautiously eased myself forward, keeping a wary eye on him in case he went for me, but he just crouched there, making little noises that weren’t quite whimpers, weren’t quite growls. I set the toy down on the ground near his front paws and then backed off a step, holding position while I waited to see what he’d do. He waited too, eyeing me with what seemed like wariness as he skittered back and forth for a few moments before abruptly lunging forward and snatching up the toy. I wasn’t entirely sure, but I thought he jumped a little when it squeaked.

“What’s got you so riled up?” I murmured. He’d made real progress over the past few weeks, seeming to tolerate his new surroundings, and the other dogs, if not comfortably then at least with a minimum of skittishness. People, he had a harder time with, but at least he hadn’t bitten anybody else. Not yet, anyway, although there had been a couple of close calls. Not that I could blame him…

I thought about backing off and just leaving him to it, but he was clearly still agitated, and I really fucking hated to leave a job half-done. So I took a slow, deep breath, put all thoughts of sharp teeth biting deep into my flesh as far out of my mind as I could and carefully advanced once more.

“Good dog, Sirius,” I said, as soothingly as I could. “You’re a good dog, and you’re safe here. No one is going to hurt you.” If anyone tried, I’d fuck them up. “Good dog,” I said, again. He whimpered around the toy, worrying at it a little so that it squeaked somewhat pathetically. At least he didn’t jump at the sound that time. And he only flinched a little when I stooped to lightly rest my hand on his back. I kept it there, unmoving, ignoring the way my pulse picked up, doing my level best to keep my posture loose and relaxed while I waited to see if this would be the straw that broke the camel’s back; the thing that shattered this fragile détente and drove him to come out biting.

(I tried to quash the uneasy thought that doing this — pushing his boundaries in this way — was nothing less than the rankest hypocrisy on my part. But Becky had said that this would help him in the long run, and she, if anyone, would surely know what was good for a dog’s wellbeing. It didn’t help my unease one whit.)

After a few tense moments, Sirius flopped down with his toy, apparently having decided to tolerate my intrusion. I let out a breath I hadn’t even realised I was holding.

“Good boy,” I told him, running my fingers through his fur. “You’re doing very well, Sirius.” I tried to tell myself that the only reason I kept petting him was because it was good for his acclimatisation, but I couldn’t make myself believe it. I… I liked dogs. I liked working here. I liked helping them, and looking after them and, yes, even playing with the sometimes snappy little bastards. I even, strange as it seemed, didn’t entirely mind working with Becky. (Well, for Becky, but whatever.) And it was only when there was a good chance I might lose all this that I really and truly appreciated just how much I would fucking miss it.

_Stupid,_ I told myself, bitterly. _So fucking stupid._ I thought I’d learned my lesson about letting myself care about things. (If you didn’t care in the first place, it didn’t hurt so much when they were inevitably taken away.) Apparently it hadn’t quite taken.

For no reason that I could see, Sirius abruptly dropped his squeaky toy and snarled at me. I only just stopped myself from flinching, trying to remember everything I’d learned about soothing savage dogs.

“Stop that,” I told him. He just snarled louder, scrabbling to his feet. “Sit,” I tried. Naturally, he didn’t obey me. _Fucking figures._ I cleared my throat and tried again. “Sirius, sit.” I pulled out one of the dog treats I’d taken to carrying in my pocket, intending to hold it above his nose, but he abruptly jerked his head around and snapped at my other arm. By the time I realised it probably hadn’t been a serious attempt to take a chunk out of me — unlike the last one — I’d already yanked my hand away. I glared at him before I could think better of it. “If you bite me, I swear to God I will bite you back.”

“That’s one way to show him who’s boss,” Becky called. She sounded amused. I would’ve glowered at her, but I didn’t want to take my eyes off Sirius right now. I wondered if it had been her approach that had set him off. Apparently his snarling and carrying on had been loud enough to hide the sound of her footsteps from me.

“I’m not actually going to bite him,” I felt compelled to point out. “I’ve already had to have one course of antibiotics thanks to him, I’d really rather not have another.” Becky just grunted, her attention on getting the dogs she’d been walking back into their enclosures. I put her out of my mind as best as I could, focusing on the task at hand. _I refuse to be out-stubborned by a dog. Especially not in front of_ ** _her_** _._ So I took a breath, drew myself up and tried to look like I knew what the fuck I was doing, making sure to show him the treat in my hand before I held it over his head. “Sirius. Sit.”

It took a couple more tries, but the twitchy little bastard eventually settled down. I wasn’t sure he was being obedient so much as he’d decided that he was done fucking around, but I decided to just take the win. I let him have the dog treat. He didn’t even try to snap at my fingers this time, so it definitely counted as a victory. My vaguely satisfied feeling lasted only about as long as it took for me to turn around after latching the cage door. Becky was staring at me with a face like thunder.

“What?” I demanded, pleased when the word came out sharp rather than timid. (Even if I did get that sick, sinking feeling in the pit of my stomach when her frown deepened in response.)

“You’re bleeding.” She pointed towards my… right side? I looked down, but couldn’t see anything. “Back.” she clarified, and I prodded at the area until I felt a dampness on my fingers.

Hellfire and damnation. All the bending up and down must have dislodged a dressing. And cracked a scab or two to boot.

“I’ll be back in a couple of minutes,” I muttered, intending to make my way to the bathroom. I had to hold in a sigh of relief when Becky moved aside without making me push past her. I had to bite back a curse when, rather than going back to the dogs as I’d assumed she would, she fell into step beside me. “I can take care of it,” I told her.

“Not well enough, or you wouldn’t be riling up the dogs.”

I stopped dead, staring at her. Was she fucking serious?

“I thought they were just agitated from the fight yesterday,” I said, my stomach flip-flopping queasily.

“Yeah. But fresh blood makes it worse.”

Well, shit. It hadn’t even occurred to me that the dogs could smell the new damage I was carrying.

_Fucking awesome,_ I found myself thinking, dismally. _Now they all know I’m a fuck up too._

And if I had fucked up the dressing, if the smell of my blood was in any way contributing to the dogs’ agitated state, then I didn’t have a choice, did I? I had to accept Becky’s offer of help. (I couldn’t afford to risk fucking up again.)

“Fine,” I said, even though it was the last thing on earth I wanted to say. Even though it felt like I had to force the word out of my throat and past my lips; like it struggled and clawed and fought me every step of the way. I was probably being a little melodramatic. In any event, while I fretted, my body moved on autopilot to grab the first aid kit and take it into the bathroom. I guessed the habits of a lifetime were enough to carry me past my reluctance and distraction.

Becky paused in the doorway to the ladies’ room.

“There’s a sink out there,” she said gruffly. “More room, too.”

She wasn’t wrong. The bathroom wasn’t exactly what I would call spacious. Maybe it would have been easier out there. But the thought of being out in the open made my skin prickle like it was going to crawl right off my bones. It was bad enough that Becky was here.

“It’s more private in here,” was all I said out loud. I set the first aid kit down on the tiny ledge between the mirror and the sink and started taking out the things we’d need. I’d barely even finished before Becky was moving closer, crowding me. It took everything I had to stop myself telling her to back the fuck off. Instead, I braced myself against the sink with one hand and pulled the hem of my top up with the other. “Okay.”

I watched her in the mirror. She met my reflection’s gaze.

“You know I’m going to have to touch you,” she said, gruffly.

I forced myself to unclench my jaw. “I’m aware.”

She still remained where she was, tilting her head slightly. “Try to hit me again and I’ll fucking hit you back.”

“I did more than just try,” my stupid pride made me mutter, but when she scowled, I added, “But I’m not going to hit you.”

Apparently she found that promise satisfactory, as grudging as it was, because she started poking and prodding at me without another word. She wasn’t overly gentle about removing the old dressing, nor about cleaning the area beneath it. That was fine, though. Honestly, the rough impersonality of her touch probably made the whole thing marginally less awkward. Or, at least, more bearable. I wasn’t sure any amount of impersonality could make this whole situation not awkward as fuck. Somehow, I was unsurprised to see in the mirror that my cheeks were flushed. Fuck, this was embarrassing. She could see how Dad had disciplined me; could work out from that exactly how much of a fuck up I was. And I didn’t want her to…

_I hate people thinking I’m a fuck up._

Or that I was stupid. Or weak.

“You said you did something stupid,” Becky said out of the blue, giving me a brief moment of panic that she was somehow aware of what had been going through my mind before I realised that she was just quoting what I’d said to her earlier.

“Yeah,” I said tightly. “I also said I didn’t want to fucking talk about it.”

Especially since it was at least partly her fault.

_Well, no,_ I amended, as soon as the thought formed in my head. _That’s not really fair._

I could hardly blame her for the dog fight, after all. And she hadn’t told me to stay and help. I’d asked her what I could do, and then I was hardly going to walk away when Max was seriously hurt. None of that was on her. Nor was it really fair to blame her for the fact that her words of praise had floated into my mind at the most inopportune moment, driving me to fight back when Dad disciplined me for being late, and for ignoring his messages and calls. It had not gone well for me. Then again, fighting him never did. And that unpleasant train of thought reminded me of something I should probably tell Becky. Even though I really didn’t want to.

“Just so you know,” I began, lacking any better way, “there’s a chance I might have to stop volunteering here.”

Her fingers dug into a sore spot on my back, making me clench my teeth on a yelp. Naturally, that set my cheek and jaw throbbing yet again, and while I was busy ignoring that, Becky apparently found her voice.

“Why? You like it here.”

She said that with such conviction. I wondered just how fucking obvious I’d been.

“I do,” I admitted. “But it’s not entirely up to me.”

Honestly, after yesterday’s shitshow I was more than a little surprised Dad hadn’t just grounded me full stop. But he hadn’t said anything about not leaving the house, just ordered me to make absolutely fucking sure I was back on time tonight. The ‘or else’ had gone unspoken. (I figured he was just letting me have enough rope to hang myself; daring me to test the limits of his patience so he could smack me back down again. It wouldn’t have been the first time.) In any case, I wasn’t fool enough to believe I could keep my new pastime from him indefinitely. He might not have gotten it out of me yesterday, but he hadn’t really been trying. If he ever did…

But I wasn’t going to think about that. Not now, not ever.

“I’m only just getting you properly trained,” she said, and I almost choked at the sheer fucking gall of her.

“How many times do I have to tell you?” I snapped, glaring daggers at her reflection. “I’m not a fucking dog.”

“Be easier if you were.” She said the words so matter-of-factly that it quite took the wind out of my sails. I genuinely did not know how to respond to that. While I struggled, she set the tape and scissors down on the edge of the sink. “Anyway, I’m done.”

“Thanks,” I said, and then froze as she did something so unexpected, so completely confusing that I genuinely had no idea how to respond. Not that she gave me the chance. Without another word, she turned on her heel and strode out of the bathroom.

I just stood there for a long moment, staring at my reflection as I asked myself, _Did she really just pat me on the head?_

I already knew the answer, of course. It didn’t fucking help. (Nor did it help to think about how I’d frozen, rather than lashing out. How it had almost, maybe, possibly felt not entirely unlike when Dad ran his fingers through my hair when he thought I’d done well.) I immediately made myself a very solemn promise.

_I am never going to think about this again._


	20. Dog Days Three: A Dog's Life

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Astrid and Rachel continue to grow closer, and Astrid makes a significant decision. (Non-canon omake.)

“How’s your arm?”

The question startled me, and I kept the frown off my face only with an effort as I glanced over in Becky’s direction.

“It’s functional,” I said cautiously, flexing the limb in question. I had to suppress another frown as lines of fire darted from my wrist all the way to my shoulder. I’d hoped it would recover faster than this. Oh well. It wasn’t that bad. I honestly wasn’t sure why she was asking. Had I fucked something up?

“What happened?”

“Minor sparring damage.” More like minor sparring damage on top of more minor sparring damage on top of leftover damage from being disciplined, but whatever. Close enough. I deliberately kept my tone flat and uninviting to discourage further questions. Either it worked, or she just wasn’t that interested in the first place, because all she did was make a noncommittal grunting noise and walk away. I stared after her for a moment, unsure what to feel.

_That was fucking weird._

I extended my arm, rotating the wrist and shoulder slightly. There was that brief flare of pain again, but it wasn’t too bad. Certainly not bad enough to make a liar out of me. I dismissed it and returned to my task, carefully drawing the brush through Marigold’s fur. As I worked, though, I found my thoughts drawn back to the puzzle of Becky’s question, and what might have prompted it. Then again, things had felt distinctly odd ever since she’d helped to patch me up after that embarrassing bleeding incident. I wasn’t sure whether or not it was all in my head, but I thought I’d caught her studying me sometimes with the weirdest fucking expression. And I felt awkward as fuck around her, second, third and fourth-guessing our every interaction. Not that we talked all that much. Honestly, the fact that she didn’t run at the mouth all the goddamn time, unlike some people I could mention — Nas, Chloe, Pippa —was definitely a point in her favour. But time had passed, and since I couldn’t pinpoint anything specific that was making me antsy, I did my level best to put it out of my mind.

(Just like that fucking bizarre pat on the head that I absolutely wasn’t going to think about ever again.)

It more or less worked.

Besides, there was certainly plenty of other shit to think about. Like waiting for the other shoe to drop at home. It had been a couple of weeks now, and… nothing. I kept to my routine, I made damn sure I showed up when I was expected, I gave it my all during training, and I followed orders to the letter. I’d racked up a few minor infractions here and there, but the punishments had honestly been pretty mild; more of a warning than anything else. But I didn’t want to think about that, either.

I finished brushing Marigold’s fur, an oddly warm feeling welling up inside me when she butted her head against my hand to demand more attention. Even though I probably shouldn’t, I found myself obliging her. _Besides,_ I rationalised, _I’m not going to get the chance after today._ The warm feeling chilled a little, the sweetness turning bitter around the edges, stupid though it was. _It’s a good thing,_ I told myself, firmly. _This is a happy day, not a sad one._ Marigold was being adopted. She was going to a family who would love and care for her; who would be able to focus their attention and affection on her and her alone. They were coming to pick her up tomorrow morning, so this was her last day at the Stay Pawsitive shelter. (Still the stupidest name I ever heard.) It was a good thing. It would have been utterly ridiculous to feel sad that she was going. Just as it would have been stupid to miss her when there were so many other dogs here to care for.

_Just as well I’m not the sentimental type._

When I eventually left Marigold, I went to check on Sirius, who I strongly doubted would be leaving here anytime soon. He was just too scarred and twitchy; more liable to snap at someone than to nuzzle them. Not exactly child-friendly. I fancied he was finally starting to relax a little around me, although that might have been wishful thinking on my part. In any case, today seemed to be one of his better days. He didn’t even flinch when I showed him the brush, nor when I brought it slowly towards him and started working the bristles through his fur. Even now, sudden movements had a tendency to make him either flinch and whimper or snarl and lunge, so I always made sure to move slowly, and to give him plenty of warning before actually touching him.

“Good boy,” I told him. “You’re doing well, Sirius.”

He barked and whuffled, sounding for all the world as if he was answering me. I wondered if he recognised his own name. I tried to ignore the stupid soft, gooey… whatever it was that pooled inside me when it belatedly occurred to me that Becky must have told Pippa that his name was Sirius when she brought him in. Given the loud, uncomplimentary things she’d said about the ‘fucking stupid’ names people sometimes saddled their dogs with, I guessed that meant she’d thought it wasn’t too bad.

_It doesn’t matter,_ I told myself. _I don’t give a fuck what she thinks of me. It’s the dogs I care about._

Still, on a more general note, it was always nice to be thought competent by someone who actually knew what the fuck they were doing.

“You’re good with him,” Nas said. I glanced over my shoulder to see him leaning on the mop he’d been using to clean the floor, grinning at me.

I found myself smiling awkwardly back.

_I guess it’s also nice to be thought competent by someone who doesn’t know what the fuck they’re doing._

No, that wasn’t fair. Becky’s somewhat disparaging opinions of the other volunteers aside, they weren’t that bad in the grand scheme of things. A bit lazy sometimes maybe, and a little too prone to flapping their gums. Occasionally jumpy, and they could stand to pay a bit more attention when someone who knew better told them things, but they tried. And I didn’t doubt that they cared about the dogs. Plus, they’d stuck around, which was another point in their favour. We’d had a few other volunteers show up over the course of the summer, but for one reason or another they’d decided it wasn’t for them. Nas and Chloe, for all their faults, kept showing up for work. I could respect that.

“Thanks,” I said. “I’m not sure I am, though, not really.” If I was, I’d be able to make him obey me more consistently, rather than only when he felt like it. I swear, sometimes it seemed like the squirrelly little bastard was deliberately fucking with me.

“You are,” Nas insisted. I wondered why he cared so much about convincing me. “He never sits still like that for me, and you can forget about putting a leash on him. What’s your secret?”

Was he serious? He didn’t sound like he was mocking me, but that didn’t necessarily mean anything. Did he want something? Was he trying to butter me up so he could ask a favour? I had no fucking clue. In the end, though, I decided we’d both be better off if I just took his question at face value.

“You move too much,” I said, after giving the matter some thought. “And you’re too loud. He probably associates sudden movements and loud noises with pain. You have to be slow and gentle and quiet with him. And pay attention. If he starts getting twitchy, back off and let him calm down.” Rage kindled in my chest at the thought of the kind of assholes who’d deliberately hurt a dog, and I had to pause to take a slow, deep breath, willing my muscles not to tense. The urge to track down those motherfuckers so I could beat the shit out of them all over again was a powerful one, but I pushed the feelings aside for now, focusing on continuing to brush Sirius with smooth, gentle motions.“The poor little bastard’s been through a lot,” I said softly, my heart breaking a little underneath all the fury.

“I’ll bear that in mind,” Nas said. “Thank you.”

He sounded like he actually meant that. I supposed he could have been putting on an act, but I couldn’t see what the point of it would’ve been. He had no particular reason to try to get into my good graces.

“You’re welcome.” I hoped I didn’t sound as awkward as I felt.

_Dogs are so much easier to deal with than people._

* * * * *

My stomach fluttered like a flag caught in a gale. I ordered it to settle down, telling myself that I was being utterly ridiculous. What the fuck was there to be nervous about? I needed to stop being so fucking twitchy. To that end, I made myself stand up straight, head up and shoulders back, trying to project a confidence I didn’t feel.

“Becky.” At least my voice didn’t shake or anything pathetic like that.

“What?” she said gruffly, frowning at me as she hung the leashes on their hooks.

“Just so you know, I’m not going to be in next week, or the week after. I’ve already let Pippa know, but-”

“Why?” she demanded, her scowl deepening.

That was a question and a half. My skin prickled, and for a brief moment I felt the shadow of a hand on my throat, but I shoved it aside — shoved it all aside — and kept my tone as light and casual as I could as I answered her question.

“I’ve got a family thing.”

Again, I felt that ghostly pressure on my throat. Again, I shoved it aside. I didn’t know what fun and games Dad had planned for our trip out to the cabin, but I knew it was going to be bad. I felt the chill of dread settling over me like a shroud, and had to suppress a shiver, telling myself that whatever was waiting for me there, I would survive it. I would endure, just as I always did. (And if I broke, I’d pull myself back together again. Just as I always did.) I just hoped I didn’t end up too damaged to work at the shelter when we got back. Maybe I should’ve told Pippa I wouldn’t be able to make the week after as well, to allow for recovery time, but that wouldn’t have been fair to the others. Or to the dogs. I’d felt bad enough that I was going to be missing two weeks.

Becky considered my words for a few moments, staring at me.

“Can’t you get out of it?”

I flinched before I could stop myself, memories of what had happened last time I’d told Dad to go fuck himself bubbling up into the forefront of my mind. With an effort, I forced them back down into the depths where they belonged, my face burning with humiliation. I hoped desperately, uselessly, that Becky had somehow missed my pathetic little display of weakness.

_Hellfire and damnation._

“No,” I told her, my tone sharper than I’d intended. “I can’t.” My nerves jangled like out-of-tune piano keys, self-loathing spilling over into anger, making me add, “I’ve already arranged things with Pippa. I was just letting you know as a courtesy.”

Her frown deepened even more, and my heart lurched as I thought for sure I’d gone too far and pissed her off. All she said in the end, though, was, “You’re coming back?”

“Yeah.” At least, I really hoped I was. “Like I said, I’ll be away for two weeks.”

She leaned against the wall, her arms folded, scrutinising me like she was looking for the solution to some complex puzzle.

“You said you might have to stop coming here.”

I cursed myself for telling her that.

“Yeah. That still might happen, but not yet.” For some reason, I found myself adding, “And I’d tell you if that was the case. I wouldn’t just disappear.”

Given how annoyed she’d seemed about people not showing up for their shifts, it made sense to tell her. There was always I chance I might run into her when I was out and about, and the last thing I wanted was to have her pissed off at me. I remembered what her dogs had done to the assholes who’d tortured Sirius, and icicles trailed down my spine.

She seemed to relax a little then, snorting and shaking her head.

“You’d better come back,” she grumbled, turning away to begin her customary examination of the dogs. “You’re the only one here apart from me who isn’t completely useless.”

I stared at her retreating back, too stunned even to thank her for the compliment, as backhanded as it had been. The warm feeling in my chest almost drove away the chill of dread’s icy grasp.

Almost.

_It’ll be okay_ , I told myself. _Whatever happens, I’ll get through it._

Anyway, it wasn’t like I had a choice.

* * * * *

The light seemed to stab straight through my eyes, piercing deep into my brain. I squinted a little, trying to block out the worst of the glare; blinked to try to clear the haloes and blotches of colour that hazed my vision even further. It didn’t help. It didn’t help in the slightest.

_Were the lights in here always this bright?_ I thought, dazedly.

They were loud, too, buzzing like a hive of wasps; buzzing loud enough that I could hear it over the constant, cacophonous ringing in my ears. And it wasn’t just the lights. Every time a dog barked, or a bowl scraped on the floor, or even when someone spoke, it made me want to clap my hands over my ears and whimper pathetically. It was too bright, too loud, just… It was too much, all of it. My skin prickled with pins and needles, the material of my clothes like sandpaper against my oversensitive skin. The slightest breeze chilled me to the bone, the slightest warmth made me feel as though I was going to be burned to a crisp. My head and half of my face were throbbing with pain, pulsing in time with my too-rapid heartbeat, and my stomach lurched queasily with the slightest movement.

_Fucking migraines._

Every part of me hurt. The whole world was pain right now. It was okay, though. I could handle pain. It was an old, familiar companion. It just… Fuck. It would have been easier if I wasn’t so goddamn exhausted. My bones were made of lead, my eyelids weighted with sand. Part of me wanted nothing more than to lay down and close my eyes; to let the darkness claim me. I was running on fumes right now, and the only thing that kept me going was the fact that I had a fucking job to do.

I sighed, straightened my spine with what felt like a Herculean effort, and trudged off to get the cleaning supplies. This place wasn’t going to clean itself, after all. Unfortunately.

I tried to ignore the way my headache spiked when I started moving. I attempted to remain oblivious to the way darkness swallowed up the edges of my vision and the world spun giddily and gaudily around me. And I most definitely tried not to think about the way my gorge rose a little, giving me a brief, panicky moment when I thought I might have to dash for the bathroom.

_This is going to fucking suck._

I wasn’t wrong. Just crossing the room was a task in and of itself. Still, at least I could lean on the broom when my vision narrowed further and the room did a loop the loop. I stood there for a long moment, breathing slowly and deeply and trying to ignore the fact that every breath made my teeth hurt and my mouth tasted like metal. When I thought I could move without pitching forward onto my face, I resumed my work.

When I finished the sweeping the floor, I could have whooped in triumph if it wouldn’t have agitated the dogs. And if it wouldn’t have hurt my ears. And if the very idea hadn’t been utterly ridiculous. Carefully returning the broom to its proper place, I reached for the mop… and then the ground was suddenly surging up towards me. It slammed into my body like a breaking wave, the impact knocking the breath right out of me. My head felt like it was about to burst.

“Fuck,” I mumbled. And, because I’d apparently caught a bad case of ‘pathetic’ today, I found myself adding, “Ow.”

I was so very tempted to just lie there for a while. The floor was cool against my aching cheek, and the room seemed more stable while I sprawled out on the ground. Plus, the arm wrapped around my head shielded my eyes from the pitiless glare of the overhead lights. But I had a job to do.

(‘I told you to get up, girl. Don’t make me come over there.’)

Anyway, the last thing I wanted was for someone to come in here and-

“The fuck are you doing down there?” Becky demanded.

_Fuck._

“Nothing,” I mumbled, stifling a groan as I pushed myself up onto my hands and knees. “I tripped.”

I took a breath, and willed my recalcitrant body to obey me as I attempted to make it all the way to vertical without landing on my ass. The room swung precariously around me again, my breath catching in my throat, and the next thing I knew there were hands grabbing at me, roughly hauling me upright and keeping me there while my legs threatened to buckle under my weight. I would’ve pulled away, or lashed out, or both, but my body just wouldn’t fucking cooperate. So, in the end, I just wobbled vaguely in place, my skin crawling at the contact, and my whole face burning with humiliation.

“You look like shit,” Becky said, sounding for all the world like a judge passing sentence. My vision cleared enough for me to realise that she was peering at my face, her own features scrunched up in a frown. “Are you sick?” Her lips tightened a little for some reason. “Hurt?”

“I’m fine,” I said flatly. “You can let go now.”

I couldn’t quite bring myself to thank her for her help. I just wanted to put this whole sorry incident behind me and get through the day. I held in a sigh of relief when she released me, only to flinch stupidly when she grabbed my arm again and held it up in front of me.

“What’s this?” It sounded like an accusation.

Confused, I looked at the offending limb. My sleeve had gotten pushed up during the kerfuffle, revealing the bandage around my wrist. Now that I was paying attention, I was once more aware of the sting of the abraded skin beneath the dressing, as well as the under the matching one on my other wrist. Not to mention the dull ache of bruises and strained joints. My vision swam and for a moment I was somewhere else, somewhere dark and close and silent, but then I blinked again and I was back in the too-bright, too-loud dog shelter, my arm trapped in Becky’s rough grasp.

“It’s nothing,” I snapped. “Now get your fucking hands off me before I make you let go.”

Like I could’ve made her do anything right now. Fuck, it felt like a stiff breeze could probably have kicked my ass. But I would be damned if I was going to act like a whipped cur just because I was up shit creek if she decided to smack me down. My pride might have been nothing but tattered rags at the moment, but I was clinging to it with everything I had.

Becky looked me up and down and snorted scornfully, not needing words to get that message across. Instead of calling my bluff though, she let go of my arm and stepped back. I immediately jerked my sleeve back down, covering up my shame. Judging the conversation over, I went to grab the mop, only to stumble embarrassingly when she abruptly snatched it up and yanked it out of my reach.

I caught myself on the wall, glaring daggers at the bitch.

“What the fuck?”

“You’re not fit to work,” she said matter-of-factly, apparently completely unfazed by my ire. “Fuck off home and don’t come back until you’re better.”

My heart sank like a stone, my veins filling with ice as I struggled to draw a breath. It took a good few seconds until I managed to inflate my lungs enough to speak.

“I’m fine,” I tried to insist. But the words came out weak and shaky, and I could tell that Becky wasn’t anywhere near convinced. “I’ll be fine,” I tried, instead. “I’ll go get a drink and splash some water on my face, and then I’ll be good to go.” She still seemed sceptical, so I pushed onwards, searching for other, better words. “I don’t want to leave you short-handed. Pippa worked out the shifts on the assumption that I’d be here today. I can’t just fuck off when there’s still shit that needs doing. Anyway, I’ll be okay in a minute. I just tripped, that’s all.”

Okay, that was too many words. I made myself shut the fuck up before I embarrassed myself any further. For her part, Becky was looking at me with an expression that, on someone else’s face, I might possibly have called understanding.

“You don’t want to go home?”

I barely managed not to flinch. Dad was home right now, and he really wasn’t happy with me. I’d failed him, again. Worse, I’d failed Mom’s memory. The more time I spent around him, the more chance there was he’d decide to do something about that. I knew there wasn’t really anything I could do to stave off the inevitable punishment, but I just… I just…

“No,” I was utterly mortified to hear myself admit.

Becky’s lips tightened again. “You can’t look after the dogs like this,” she said, her tone gruff but not unkind. “Go take a nap in the break room.”

A nap sounded heavenly right about now. Sure, I despised myself for my weakness, but maybe if I did put my head down for a few minutes, I’d actually be able to finish out the rest of my shift. And I could work extra hard to make up for my failure. There was just one problem.

“People are always going in and out of the break room,” I said, my skin crawling at the thought of putting myself in such a vulnerable position. “I don’t want Pippa to make a fuss.”

“Fine. Come.” She started moving without waiting for a response. Lacking any better option, I fell in beside her. Well, slightly behind, given my slow pace. I didn’t want to risk going ass over apex again.

“I’m not a fucking dog,” I muttered, for about the umpteenth time since I’d met her. “Would it kill you to just ask instead of ordering me around?”

She made a strange sound. It took me a moment to recognise it as laughter.

“You do what you’re told,” she said. “Even if you do snap and snarl about it.”

Hellfire and fucking damnation. Apparently today was my day for plumbing whole new depths of humiliation. It felt like shame was searing me from the inside out.

“Go fuck yourself.” The words spilled out before I could stop them. It was perhaps for the best that she seemed too amused to take offence right now; flashing me a smug little smirk that made me want to smack it right off her face. It was probably a good thing that we reached our destination before I could grow new feet for the express purpose of inserting them in my mouth. Or do something I’d certainly end up regretting.

“Here,” she said, opening the door to the storeroom. “There are spare blankets at the back. They make a good bed.”

I stared at her for a moment, wondering if that was the voice of experience talking. It kind of sounded like it, but… No. Best not to ask.

“The door doesn’t lock,” I found myself blurting out when I was busy trying to stop myself asking Becky if she’d slept in there before.

“I’ll be out here.”

Was she saying she’d stand guard? Why the fuck would she do that? It wasn’t like we were friends. I dithered for a moment, feeling awkward as fuck, when a massive yawn damn near split my face in two. I belatedly clapped my hand to my mouth, flushing with embarrassment. I guessed I hadn’t exactly gotten much in the way of sleep lately. But that was perilously close to things I wasn’t going to think about.

“Thanks,” I mumbled, just before another yawn cracked my jaw. Apparently, despite my misgivings, my body had decided this was a secure enough place to sleep. And I should probably get moving before I just collapsed where I stood. Again. Cursing myself half-heartedly — I just couldn’t work up the energy for real self-loathing right now — I trudged into the storeroom and grabbed some blankets. Becky stood in the doorway while I arranged them into a makeshift bed. When I was done, she wordlessly closed the door without being asked.

_She probably thinks I’m too pathetic to make it all the way to the door and back._

The sad thing was, she was almost certainly right.

I wriggled into the pile of blankets, consciousness starting to fade almost before my head hit my improvised pillow. My last coherent thought before exhaustion dragged me under was, _I’ve slept in worse places._

* * * * *

I jerked upright, my heart racing and my mind filled with the knowledge that I had to move; I had to get away. My eyes were fuzzy, the world stubbornly refusing to focus no matter how many times I blinked, but there was a figure in front of me, reaching for me. I reacted instinctively, snapping out a blow. There was a grunt when it connected, and I immediately went to follow up, but this time my attack was smacked aside, my arm stinging with the impact of the block. I felt slow and clumsy, my body responding poorly to my commands, desperation driving me to just keep trying, even though my head was pounding like a drum and I ached down to my bones. Failure was not an option. Failure would be-

“Astrid. Stop.”

My body froze before my mind consciously registered the command, and I only belatedly realised that it hadn’t come from my father, but from…

“Becky? What the fuck? Get your goddamn hands off me!”

I was perilously close to hyperventilating, my lungs straining to draw in air that seemed oddly thin. Becky sat back a little, the light streaming in through the open door showing me that she was scowling.

“You were yelling. It was disturbing the dogs. I came in to wake you up and you went for me.”

Yelling? Hellfire and damnation. What was I, a child? Fuck me. I really hoped I hadn’t said anything… compromising. God, this was embarrassing. I tried to cover my scalding, roiling, uncomfortable fucking feelings with a glare of my own.

“I told you not to touch me. How the fuck did you think I would react?” I couldn’t stop my hands from shaking, so I buried them in the blankets and hoped she wouldn’t notice. “Why didn’t you just make some noise instead of fucking… grabbing at me?”

“Tried that. Didn’t work.”

“Oh.” I usually slept lightly. Sometimes even the sound of a door opening or a creaking floorboard was enough to jolt me from the depths of slumber all the way into full wakefulness. And yet she was saying she hadn’t been able to rouse me? Fuck. “I guess I was tired,” I muttered. I still was, especially now I was coming down from the adrenaline spike. I was much less fuzzy-headed than I had been, though, and my vision was starting to clear. While the migraine still had its claws in me, it wasn’t gripping me as tightly as it had. All in all, the nap had definitely helped. Maybe even enough to be worth what was coming. I sighed softly and sat up straight, meeting Becky’s gaze. “Are you going to hit me?”

“Huh?”

“You said if I hit you, you’d hit me back.” The words left a bitter taste in my mouth, but as galling as it was to admit it, I was the one in the wrong here. If I really had been yelling, and if I really hadn’t roused for anything short of being prodded, then Becky’s actions had been entirely justified. Which meant I’d fucked up. And I sure as shit knew what that meant.

She didn’t answer right away, looking at me with an expression I couldn’t even begin to interpret. The scrutiny made my skin crawl, but I ignored the urge to fidget restlessly and forced myself to remain perfectly still. I was just starting to wonder if I should prompt her for a response when she finally spoke.

“Yeah.”

Before I could ask if that was her answer, or if she was merely acknowledging my repetition of her own words, she shifted her weight, and I had to remind myself to remain still; to ignore the instincts screaming at me to defend myself. (Control, control, control.) No matter what, I absolutely refused to let myself flinch.

I was so busy bracing myself for the inevitable pain, that it took me a moment to realise that it was already over.

“That’s it?” I blurted out, stunned. All she’d done was clip me lightly around the ear. It had barely even stung.

_Is she… mocking me?_

“What? You **want** me to beat the shit out of you?” She was looking at me like I’d just grown a second head.

“Of course not,” I snapped, my face burning with humiliation and anger. “It’s just…” In the space between one breath and the next, it was like the fire of my rage just burned itself out, leaving me feeling cold and small and just plain exhausted. I sighed deeply. Words bubbled up inside me and I didn’t even have the energy to hold them back. “I can’t keep watching my back all the time. I can’t keep wondering if you’re going to jump me, or… or set your fucking dogs on me, or whatever. I have enough of that kind of shit at home. While I’m here, I just want to focus on taking care of the dogs. So, if you’re still pissed at me, and if you’re planning any more payback, just get the fuck on with it so I can move on with my life and do my fucking job.”

I’d hate myself later, I knew, but right now I couldn’t bring myself to care. I just watched Becky, waiting to see how she’d respond. I couldn’t even begin to predict what she’d do. Even so, I still felt a dull, distant pulse of surprise when, after what felt like an age, she reached out and patted me on the shoulder.

“We’re square,” she said gruffly. “It’s done.” She got to her feet while I processed that. “You feel up to working now, or do you need more sleep?”

“I’m fine,” I said automatically, and then realised that wasn’t even a lie. I still felt like shit, but at least the room had finally stopped spinning around me. And I kind of wanted to focus on the simple satisfaction of work for a while. “Just give me a couple of minutes to tidy up in here.”

She nodded and left me to it. Except ‘it’ turned out to mean just huddling there in my blanket nest, staring blankly into the distance.

_That really just happened,_ I thought dazedly.

I stayed there for a few moments longer as I attempted to make sense of what was turning out to be the most surreal fucking day. Unfortunately no insights were forthcoming and, anyway, I needed to stop fucking around before Becky came back to see what was keeping me. Taking a deep breath, I pushed aside the mass of confusion, discomfort, and whatever the fuck else was lurking there and got to my feet. Even so, one stray thought escaped to flit across my mind as I folded the blankets I’d used and returned them to the shelf.

_At least she didn’t pat me on the fucking head again._

* * * * *

“Hey, Becky?”

“What?” She hung up her jacket and turned to give me a suspicious look.

I held out the saran-wrapped sandwich I’d been clutching, sternly telling the fluttering, shivery feeling in my chest to knock it the fuck off. The fuck was there to be nervous about? It was just a goddamn sandwich. If she didn’t want it, I’d have it later. Anyway, who would be pissed off at someone for offering them a fucking sandwich?

(I tried not to think about the fact that she was not only a fucking cape, but an infamously touchy one. Who the fuck knew what would set her off?)

“I made this for you. For lunch. If you want it.”

Her gaze dropped to the sandwich, and then snapped up again to meet mine, her frown deepening. “Why?”

This was the tricky part.

_Words: my old foe._

I took a moment to gather myself before answering her question.

“I never said thank you for helping to patch me up. Or for teaching me about how to care for dogs.” My throat wanted to close up, but I forced myself to keep talking. “And you were understanding yesterday, when I was…” Being utterly fucking pathetic. “When I wasn’t at my best. I… appreciate that. So this is my way of saying thank you. For all of it.”

The lines of her face seemed to soften slightly, and she looked at the sandwich again, this time with interest. “What is it?”

“Lamb gyro, heavy on the lamb.”

And… now the suspicion was back, glittering in her eyes when she fixed me with another scowl.

“How do you know what I like? Have you been spying on me?”

I ignored the cowardly little voice in the back of my mind that urged me to placate her, instead matching her glare for glare.

“Of course I fucking haven’t,” I said sharply. “You’ve eaten lunch here before, remember? I’m not blind.”

She grunted; one of the thoughtful-sounding ones, rather than one of the sounds she made when she was pissed. I relaxed just a fraction. Apparently, despite my less than conciliatory tone, she’d found my answer acceptable. She started to reach for the sandwich, but then paused, her lips tightening.

“I don’t owe you anything for this.” It wasn’t quite a question, wasn’t quite a statement.

“Of course not,” I said. “Like I said, it’s just a thank you. I don’t want or expect anything in return.”

“Good,” she said, finally accepting my offering.

“Hope you like it,” I blurted out, and then cringed inside at how stupid I sounded.

She grunted again. This one sounded amused. She stuffed the sandwich into the break room fridge and then turned to face me, her eyes narrowing as she scrutinised me within an inch of my life.

“What?” I demanded, narrowly stopping myself from clenching my fists.

“You still look like shit,” she told me. “Are you going to trip again?”

“I’m fine,” I growled, and then made myself dial the anger back. Somewhat bitterly, I noted that I could hardly blame her for wondering if I was up to the job. “I’m much better than yesterday,” I said, in a more neutral tone. “You don’t have to worry about being left in the lurch again. And I’ll make up the time I missed.”

“Let’s see if you make it through the day first.” And then the bitch just smirked at me.

I glowered at her, but my heart wasn’t quite in it. There was something nagging at me, a feeling that something was amiss, that something was weird, but I couldn’t for the life of me figure out what it was. It wasn’t until we were both busy with our respective tasks that it finally clicked into place. The words had been mocking, at least on the surface. The tone, though… It hadn’t felt malicious. If anything, I thought maybe Becky had sounded almost… friendly?

I had no fucking clue what to make of that.

_Probably best not to think about it._

* * * * *

“I miss Marigold,” Chloe said softly, her glossed lips turning down at the edges in a sad little pout.

Why the fuck was she even wearing lip gloss at a dog shelter? The dogs didn’t care whether or not her lips were shiny. Nas wasn’t even working today. It was just me and her. And Becky, of course. Becky came in most days. She seemed to be a fixture of the place. Right now she was talking to Pippa, although I wasn’t sure why. Given the way she’d been frowning, I was half-expecting to hear loud swearing from that direction at any moment.

“She’s better off where she is,” I said shortly.

Most of my attention was on the task of carefully grooming Max. The tough little bastard had pulled through after all, and had finally been deemed fit enough to be returned to his usual enclosure. He was still a long way from being fully recovered, though, spending much of his time sprawling listlessly on the blankets that passed for his bed.

“I know that.” Chloe’s voice dragged me out of my thoughts. It took me a moment to recall what we’d been talking about. “I don’t want her to come back here or anything. I just…” She sighed quietly. “I miss her, that’s all.”

A pang of something went through me at her words. I guessed melancholy was contagious. I made a noncommittal noise, hoping she’d read that as whatever response she was hoping for. I couldn’t have been too far off the mark because she sighed again and continued filling the dogs’ water bottles. I couldn’t help giving a quiet sigh of my own, this one in relief that the conversation was apparently over. First impressions aside, I didn’t actively dislike Chloe. I just had absolutely fuck all in common with her. She was pretty and fashionable and perfectly made-up. I… wasn’t. She could apparently make conversation as easily as breathing, chattering effortlessly without once coming close to putting her foot in her mouth. I definitely couldn’t do that. The only thing we did have in common was caring about the dogs.

Like Max.

I found myself frowning as I studied him. The vet had assured us it was only a matter of time until he recovered his previous levels of vim and vigour, but I fretted nonetheless. I could have been wrong, but even beyond his new scars, something in him seemed kind of… broken. I hoped I was wrong. I prayed I was wrong. But I couldn’t help fearing that I wasn’t.

_You’ll be okay,_ I told him, silently. _You’re tough. You’re a survivor. You can get through this._

I sent up a silent prayer that I was telling the truth.

I heard a familiar set of heavy footsteps approaching. Apparently Becky and Pippa had finished their talk. I hadn’t even heard any raised voices, so maybe whatever it was had been resolved amicably. I wondered if Becky would get mad if I asked what it had been about. Without a word to either of us, she set about checking on the dogs. Chloe tried to initiate a conversation with her, but after having several overtures rebuffed with grunts, silence and one-word answers, she eventually gave up. Honestly, it could’ve gone worse.

When I finally finished with Max, Becky glanced over in my direction and beckoned imperiously.

“Come with me,” she said, not even waiting for a response before striding off.

_You’re not my fucking commander,_ I only just refrained from saying. But with an inward sigh, and a scalding rush of self-loathing, I did as I was told. Again. When I caught up with her, I started to say something snippy about her rudeness but she just spoke right over me, her attention clearly elsewhere.

“I need your help with Buster,” she said gruffly, quite taking the wind out of my sails.

I took a calming breath, setting aside my annoyance for later.

“What do you need me to do?”

“He needs to learn how to behave around people.” Her lips tightened. “People other than me. The sooner we start, the better.” Almost as an afterthought, she added, “Figured you wouldn’t be stupid about it and get yourself bit.” She fixed me with a stern look. “You better not prove me wrong.”

“I’m not going to be stupid,” I said irritably, ignoring the way my pulse sped up and my stomach flip flopped queasily. “Just tell me what to do.”

A short while later, I was trying to shove down the all-too-vivid memory of seeing Buster take chunks out of Max’s hide as Becky talked me through letting the vicious fucker acclimatise to my presence. It mostly involved using techniques she’d already taught me, but apparently she thought I needed the reminder. I would’ve been irritated at the implied slight to my skills, but given Buster was easily the most ferocious dog we had in the shelter, I couldn’t quite blame her for wanting to make absolutely sure I didn’t fuck up. My neck and shoulders were aching with tension and my nerves felt like over-tightened violin strings. Fuck, I didn’t think I’d even felt this jumpy around Sirius in the beginning.

I wondered uneasily if Buster was holding a grudge over being sprayed with cold water. Or being grabbed by his hind legs. Maybe he was just biding his time…

“Good,” Becky said. “You’re doing well.” I honestly wasn’t sure if she was talking to me or the dog. “Now we need to get him to respect your authority.”

_Huh. Guess she was talking to me._

Something was bothering me; a question nagging at the back of my mind. The next time the opportunity arose, I couldn’t stop myself from asking.

“He’s been trained already, right? I mean, he had a collar, and he didn’t go for anyone when he was brought in. He only lost it when he saw Max.”

Becky’s face contorted into an expression of utter fury, and I held myself still, wondering if I’d pissed her off by bothering her with a question. The next moment though, her features relaxed again. She still looked angry, but I didn’t think it was directed at me.

“The person who trained him was a fucking… bastard motherfucker,” she muttered, the softness of her voice at odds with the harsh words. I assumed she was making an effort to control her tone, presumably so as not to agitate Buster. “They-” She broke off, her cheeks reddening with emotion, her hands twitching like she wanted nothing more than to smack someone. My chest started to hurt, and I realised I was holding my breath. I cursed myself for my stupidity as I forced myself to breathe again. My neck and shoulders were aching even more. Becky was looking at me now, and I hoped fervently that she hadn’t noticed my stupid little bout of whatever-it-was. She took a breath; let it out again slowly. “Come on,” she said quietly. “I want to show you something.”

The ‘something’ turned out to be Buster. At her direction, I crouched down next to her as she combed her fingers through his fur.

“See those scars?” she said, her voice still strangely soft, although her eyes still blazed with fury.

I suspected my expression was similar, my breath catching in my throat as my own rage spread through me like wildfire. I had to swallow hard before I could speak without snarling.

“Someone whipped him?”

There were other scars, too; bite marks and scratches and other, less identifiable reminders of damage, but those were the ones that arrested my gaze. My skin felt hot and tight, and there was a roaring in my ears. The world shivered around me, or maybe I was trembling. For a brief, terrible moment, I could’ve sworn I heard the sound of leather sliding over cloth.

“Looks like it,” Becky murmured, thankfully dragging my thoughts back from whatever dark place they were going. “Among other things.” She rubbed Buster’s flank, murmuring to him that he was a good boy, that he was doing well. “Look,” she said, and dread slithered through me as I watched her gently sweep aside a patch of fur at the side of his neck. There was scarring there, too, looking like callouses built up over time, and-

Cold. I was so cold, my whole body shivering with it, my skin prickling with goose pimples. I couldn’t… couldn’t catch my breath. There was a pressure on my throat, my thoughts scattering like marbles as I scrabbled desperately for clarity amidst the haze of utter panic. I didn’t know where I was. Words came from a great distance, strange and distorted, only two of them making sense.

“Choke chain.” I couldn’t… I… What the fuck was wrong with me? After what felt like an eternity of trying, and failing, to catch my breath, another word made it through the fog in my mind. “Astrid?”

Hellhound’s voice, I realised. Rachel’s voice. Becky’s. Which meant I was here, and not **there** ; here in the dog shelter, where I was making an absolute fucking idiot of myself.

“What?” I asked shortly, my face on fire with humiliation. Out of Becky’s eyeline, I pressed my left wrist against the side of my knee, focusing on the way the bruises and abrasions stung in response to the applied pressure. It grounded me in the here and now, reminding me what was real. (Anyway, I deserved that, and more, for being so fucking weak.)

“You okay?” Was that scorn in her voice, or was it something else?

_She’s probably just worried I’m going to rile up Buster._

“Fine. Just fucking furious at the thought someone hurting a dog like that.” The second part of that, at least, was true.

I had no clue whether or not she believed me, but thankfully she was willing to let it go, sighing a little as she once again told Buster he was a good dog.

“People say there are a bunch of different ways you can train dogs,” she said quietly, “but that’s because they’re idiots. There are only two ways: the right one and the wrong one.” Her gaze snapped to mine, her expression stern and her eyes seeing to bore right into me. “What’s the right one?”

My pulse ratcheted up as I realised this was a test. I cudgelled my brain into gear, thinking back over everything she’d taught me.

“Earning their trust and respect,” I ventured. “Being consistent. Rewarding good behaviour.”

She considered my answer for a moment while I tried to pretend that my heart wasn’t in my mouth; that I wasn’t waiting anxiously for her verdict.

“Good enough,” she pronounced. I only just stopped myself from sighing with relief, cursing myself for my weakness. “The wrong way…” She trailed off, her jaw tightening. Clearing her throat, she tried again, her words clipped around the edges, but strangely clinical. “They just hurt the dog. Make it afraid of them; make it afraid to disobey.” Her face twisted up as if she wanted to spit. “And it works, kind of. But it fucks up the dogs. They get mean. Vicious. Because that’s all they understand. And they attack people, or other dogs, and then people start whining about them being dangerous and calling for them to be put down.” She snorted. “Better off putting down the fucker that abused them.”

“That’s fucked up,” I heard myself say, barely louder than a whisper. “Hurting a dog like that.” My hands ached, and I realised I was clenching them into fists. I made myself relax them, but it was hard. “That’s… That’s…” Words escaped me, consumed in the raging inferno of my fury, so I fell back on my first sentiment. “It’s fucked up.”

Becky studied me for a long moment, some unreadable emotion flickering in her eyes.

“Yeah,” she said. “It’s fucked up.” For a brief, mad moment, I almost asked her if she was okay. Fortunately, though, she saved me from my own idiocy by saying, “Let’s get back to work.”

As she resumed her instruction, I couldn’t help wondering who was actually being trained here: Buster or me. I promptly resolved not to ask Becky. I had a feeling I wouldn’t have liked the answer. I did have other questions, though, and when she eventually called a halt to the proceedings, I took the opportunity to ask one of them.

“Did Buster’s owner ever contact the shelter? Try to claim him?” They hadn’t before my two week absence, but they could have done so in the interim.

Becky scowled fiercely. “No.”

I remembered, again, the way Sirius’ torturers had screamed when she’d set her dogs on them. This time, though, rather than having to suppress a shudder, I felt a feral kind of satisfaction at the memory.

“Pity.” Whatever had prompted that burst of feeling also leaked into my voice, giving the word a distinct edge.

Becky closed the door to Buster’s room behind us and leaned against the wall, giving me a speculative look.

“What would you do if you found them?”

“Fuck them up,” I said, simply. My hands wanted to clench into fists again. I let them. “They tortured a fucking dog. They deserve to suffer for that.”

Her lips curved in a fierce grin, and she nodded with what looked like approval. I felt myself returning it, standing a little straighter.

“You did well with Buster,” she said, her expression sobering. She paused then, and I couldn’t have sworn to it, but it almost seemed like she was hesitating. “I’m not going to be around as much from now on. I’ll come in when I can, but…” She twitched her shoulders in a shrug. “I’ve got shit to do.”

“Oh.” I didn’t know what to say to that. I desperately wanted to know what was going to be taking up her time from now on, but I also knew better than to ask. “Okay.”

“I want you to look after him when I’m not here.” Her jaw tensed visibly. “I don’t trust anyone else not to fuck it up. If he bites one of them he’ll be the one who’s blamed, not the idiot who got themselves bit. They might even put him down.” She walked towards me, holding my gaze. “Can you do it?”

Could I? I thought about it for a moment, and then nodded slowly. “Yes.” A pang went through me, and I made myself add, “As long as I can keep coming here, anyway.”

Her sudden frown sent my pulse racing, but all she said, was, “If you can’t, I’ll figure something out.” She studied me again, looking weirdly… uncertain.

“What?” I demanded, trying to cover my unease with irritation.

Becky shook her head. “Nothing,” she said gruffly. She started to reach out and, still twitchy from my stupid little wibble fit earlier, I flinched before I could stop myself. She paused mid-motion, her lips pressing together, and then abruptly turned away. “I need to talk to Pippa again,” she muttered, not looking at me. “Start walking the dogs.”

She was gone before I managed to find my voice. That was probably a good thing. I didn’t have the first fucking clue what I would have said. I headed for the kennels, shoving all the humiliation, anger, self-loathing and just plain confusion down as best as I could. I didn’t want to think about it. I didn’t want to think about any of it. I especially didn’t want to dwell on the question that kept popping back up every time I thought I’d finally succeeded in burying it.

_Was she going to pat me on the fucking head again?_

* * * * *

I wanted to pace back and forth. I wanted to hit something. I wanted to flee like the coward I apparently was. But I didn’t let myself do any of those things. Instead, I stayed where exactly where I was, patiently waiting for Becky to complete her current task.

Well. I waited, anyway. Calling it ‘patient’ was stretching thing a little. Okay, a lot.

In any case, Becky finally finished what she was doing. She turned around, her brows drawing together when she saw me standing there.

“What?” she asked, a whole world of wariness infused into that one word.

“I need to talk to you.” I was ridiculously proud of myself for managing to keep my tone level and neutral. Nevertheless, Becky’s frown deepened.

“So talk.”

“Not here,” I said. “Can we go outside?”

Her eyes narrowed. For a moment I thought she was going to demand I spit it out anyway, but then she said, “Fine. But if you’re wasting my time, I’m going to thump you.”

“You’ll try,” I muttered, wincing inside as she glared at me. I had the uncomfortable feeling that, sooner or later, I was going to pay for that comment. Still, that wasn’t important right now.

_Hellfire and damnation. I really hope I’m not making a mistake._

Neither of us spoke as we made our way out back. The instant the door closed behind us though, she rounded on me, still glaring.

“Talk.”

It was a measure of just how distracted I was I didn’t even get mad at the order. I just swallowed hard, met her eyes, and obeyed.

“Hookwolf’s running a dogfight.” Her expression shifted, and I hurried onwards, wanting to get the whole thing out before she interrupted me. (Before I lost my fucking nerve.) “Tomorrow night.” I gave her the location; a warehouse in Empire territory. “I… I thought you’d want to know.”

In a distant part of my mind, I hated myself for stuttering. Mostly though, I was watching Becky, waiting to see how she was going to react. She exploded into motion, slamming into me, shoving me against the wall. I bit my tongue against a yelp as my back hit the brickwork, bruises throbbing with the impact, but that was all I did. I’d been half-expecting something of the sort; had already made up my mind not to react. I had to make sure she heard my message. I had to make sure she believed it. That was more important than salving my fucking pride.

“How the fuck do you know that?” she snarled, low and angry, gripping my shoulders almost hard enough to leave bruises. “Are you Empire? Do you work for that dog-torturing motherfucker?” She shook me, hard. “Answer me!”

“I’m not with the fucking Empire.” I couldn’t have kept the snarl from my own voice if I’d wanted to; didn’t even try. “I wouldn’t piss on those nazi fucks if they were on fire.”

“Then how do you know?”

_Because my brother hangs around with some of the assholes and I heard him talking about it with them while they were hanging out in my house._

But saying that might lead to too many awkward questions, so instead I told her, “I was passing through Empire territory. Heard some of them talking. I hid out of sight and eavesdropped on them.”

The ‘passing through’ was the only part that was a lie. Technically. I hoped fervently that it would be good enough.

“Look,” I said, when she remained silent. “If you don’t believe me, you can always check. You must have your own sources.” Then again, maybe she didn’t. She wasn’t exactly the sociable type. “Or you can grab some Empire asshole and interrogate them. Either way, you don’t have to take my fucking word for it.”

After what felt like a lifetime, she let her hands drop from my shoulders. I sagged minutely in relief, only to tense again when she didn’t step back.

“Do you know who I am?” Her voice was barely louder than a whisper.

“Yeah.” The question didn’t surprise me. Honestly, I would’ve been more surprised if she hadn’t asked. I’d already made up my mind to answer honestly.

“Say it.”

I blinked at her for a moment, then shrugged inwardly. I couldn’t say I blamed her for wanting confirmation.

“Rachel Lindt,” I said softly. “Hellhound.”

“Bitch!” she snapped, her face contorting with rage.

“The fuck did you say to me?” I shot back, before I could think better of it.

“No,” she said, mystifyingly, and I belatedly realised that her scowl was more irritated than truly angry. “Only those pussies in the Protectorate call me Hellhound. My name’s Bitch.”

_Oh. Okay._

“Bitch, then,” I amended. If that was what she wanted me to call her, I sure as shit wasn’t going to argue.

“How long?”

“How long what? How long have I known?”

“Yeah.”

“Since we first met.”

I wasn’t entirely sure, but that seemed to surprise her. An instant later, though, her expression darkened again.

“You tell anyone?”

“No. Are you thinking about killing me to make sure I don’t?”

_Hellfire and damnation! Why the fuck did I ask that?_

But she seemed first surprised and then, bizarrely, amused, smirking a little as she finally backed away.

“Not after all the effort I’ve put into getting you properly trained,” she said.

“Patronising bitch,” I muttered.

“You remembered. Good girl.”

I damn near choked. Too furious to speak, I had to content myself with glaring daggers at her. Judging by the way her goddamn smirk widened, that just amused her even more.

_I swear to God, if she pats me on the goddamn head again I’m going to fucking bite her!_

Fortunately though, she seemed to be done mocking me for the moment, her amusement shifting into a businesslike demeanour. All in all, it was probably for the best that I didn’t have to follow through on my silent promise.

“Can you drive?”

I stared at her for a moment, confused by the apparent non sequitur.

“Yes, but I don’t have a car.” No fucking way was I going to borrow Dad’s. “Why?”

“Because I need someone to drive away with the dogs.”

A weight settled onto my shoulders, and I knew beyond shadow of a doubt that I was feeling the pressure of my own impending doom. I forced myself to ask the obvious question, despite already being pretty damn sure of the answer.

“What dogs?”

She grinned fiercely at me, her expression reminding me of when I’d told her I wanted to fuck up the person who’d hurt Buster.

“The dogs you’re going to help me save from that motherfucker Hookwolf.”

I just stared at her, one thought running endlessly through my mind.

_I am so fucked._

No, actually. Not one thought: two.

_Fucking capes._


	21. Interpersonal Problems

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Astrid has a tense conversation with Carlos, followed by a brief encounter with Dean. (Deleted scenes from 4.12.)

Distracted by the million or more different things trying to stake a claim on my very limited attention, it took me a moment to realise that the kitchen was occupied. Worse, it was occupied by the one person I’d been hoping to avoid the most.

Carlos’ eyes narrowed a little as he looked up, but his tone was more or less neutral when he asked, “Looking for coffee?”

It felt like I had to unstick my tongue from the roof of my mouth and make my lungs inflate by sheer force of will before I could reply. Even so, my voice was barely audible.

“Yes, Sir.”

“The pot’s just finished brewing. Help yourself.”

“Thank you, Sir.”

I waited for him to step aside before cautiously approaching, trying to pretend that I wasn’t watching him out of the corner of my eye as I quickly rinsed out and refilled my mug. I’d been thinking about getting some dinner as well, but that could wait until later. I wasn’t that hungry. Anyway, maybe I should just go to the canteen. My shoulder was a little sore today, so it would be sensible to avoid straining it by cooking. Those vegetables I’d been thinking of using up would surely keep another—

_Shit!_

I’d flinched away from the movement automatically, my stupid body reacting without bothering to consult my mind, and now Carlos froze mid-motion, surprise flashing into anger before my eyes.

“Homosexuality isn’t contagious, you know,” he snapped, continuing past me to wash up his spoon in the sink. His shoulders were tense; his movements tight and angry. Nausea clawed at the back of my throat, but I swallowed it back, ordering my metal to stand down.

“I— I’m sorry, Sir.” I hated myself for that stutter. “I wasn’t…” I trailed off, hesitated, and tried again. “I was just startled, that’s all. I’m sorry.”

Carlos looked over at me, and his expression shifted again. For a moment I could have sworn he looked almost ashamed before veiling whatever was going on behind his eyes with a mask of neutrality.

“No, I’m sorry,” he said haltingly, slumping a little. “I shouldn’t have snapped at you like that.”

I stared at him, completely thrown for a loop.

“That’s okay, Sir,” I forced myself to answer. “It was my fault.”

“You don’t need to call me that,” he said softly, dropping his gaze as if seeking wisdom on the ground at his feet. “Especially when we’re off-duty.” His voice was oddly hoarse, and he shifted from foot to foot as if uncomfortable. “And you really don’t need to be afraid of me. I’m—”

“I’m not afraid!” The words exploded out of me like shrapnel, sharp-edged and vicious. I was burning up, or I was turning to ice, and I had absolutely no fucking clue which one it was. The world seemed to stutter around me for a moment before time resumed its inexorable march.

His gaze jerked up to meet mine, false concern written across his face. “Astrid,” he began, and then stopped. I just stared at him, not trusting myself to speak. “I know we have some… differences of perspective.” He stopped again, his mouth twisting like he tasted something foul, his hands twitching as though he wanted to clench them into fists. (A whimper started to form in my throat, but I swallowed it back.) “And I know that you’ve had a difficult home life. This whole situation can’t be easy for you, and I understand that there’s going to be an adjustment period while you figure things out.”

The fuck was he trying to say? It sounded like he was parroting something. Or someone. In fact, it sounded an awful lot like something Mr Renick had said to me during our meeting earlier. Had he talked about me to Carlos during their one-on-one? Fuck, had he talked about me to the whole goddamn team? Told them to cut me some slack on account of how I was utterly and completely fucking pathetic?

“I don’t understand, Sir,” I forced myself to say when he showed no sign of continuing. Despite my best efforts, my tone could have cut glass.

_Goddammit, Ms Grant._

I didn’t know this was her fault, of course, not for sure. But Mr Renick suddenly deciding that he wanted to ‘touch base’ with the Wards three days after I’d vented my stupid fucking feelings to her? And him specifically asking me how I was getting on with my teammates? Yeah, I was calling bullshit on coincidence.

A muscle twitched in Carlos’ jaw. “I’m trying to say that I know it’s probably not your fault you think the way you do,” he said tightly. “And that it isn’t a crime to have opinions. Even fucking offensive ones.” He almost snarled the last words, and I wasn’t sure if the pause that followed was because he was expecting a response, or because he needed a moment to regain his self-control. Either way, it was moot. I couldn’t have spoken if I wanted to, and he was clearly still right on the edge of utterly losing his shit. Still, he at least sounded more or less calm when he added, “No one’s going to punish you for what you think. Okay?”

I still couldn’t speak around the pressure on my throat, so I just nodded instead. That seemed to be what he wanted, even if I didn’t have the first fucking clue why. What did it matter what excuse he had to give to Mr Renick to justify disciplining a subordinate? There were plenty to choose from.

“Okay,” he said again, sounding oddly uncertain. He glanced down, seeming startled to see the spoon still in his hand. He absently stuck it in the drying rack, his attention still on me. “I also…” He cleared his throat and tried again. “I also realise that you didn’t exactly go out of your way to share your opinions, and I want you to know that I didn’t ask Dean to talk to you.” Shifting position a little, he ran a hand through his hair. “I wouldn’t do that, okay? If I have a problem with anything you do, I’ll tell you myself.”

Was Dean in trouble for interfering in Carlos’ disciplinary process?

“You don’t have to punish him on my behalf,” I heard myself say. “He was only trying to defend you. I can understand that. And it was only words. He didn’t even hit me.” Well, try to hit me. Unless Dean had got the drop on me with his power, I was quietly confident I would have kicked his fucking ass. (And if he tried to lecture me again, I still might.)

Carlos frowned as he studied me, and my heart juddered in my chest as I wondered how badly I’d fucked up by speaking out of turn.

“Look,” he began. There was more after that, but I couldn’t focus on the words, because he took a step forward, reaching out a hand and I was…

_‘Look at me when I’m talking to you.’_

_I sprawled bonelessly on the ground where he’d dropped me, my limbs leaden and useless. Every single panting breath scraped over my raw throat like sandpaper, but I didn’t care, gulping greedily for enough air to fill my straining lungs._

_‘Did you hear me, girl?’_

_Agony pulsed through my head in time with the frantic beating of my heart, but the pain barely even registered as I tried with all my strength to get my hands under me and push. Standing was far beyond me, but if I could at least get up onto my knees…_

_‘Don’t make me tell you again.’_

_A shadow fell over me, and a sudden jolt of terror turned my feeble twitching into…_

…jerking back, hands automatically raising in a useless attempt at a block. I froze, and so did Carlos; the two of us staring at each other like the world’s most awkward mimes.

“I was just getting my coffee,” he said slowly.

“I’m sorry, Sir,” I rasped out, clearing my throat before adding, “I guess I’m a little on edge today.”

My heart was going a mile a minute, my lungs straining for air even though there was no fucking reason for it. The memory clung to me like mud, pulling me off-balance and turning the kitchen into a strange and unfamiliar place. I forced my body to stand down, almost thankful for the way my shoulder flared with pain as I moved it. Rather than trying to push the sensation aside, I focused on it, using it to anchor myself in the here and now.

I couldn’t even begin to decipher Carlos’ expression, but he surely must have utterly despised me right now. Apparently deciding to abandon his coffee for the moment, he took a step back, away from me.

“Astrid,” he began, after a couple of false starts. “I’m really not—”

“May I leave, Sir?”

I cringed inside as I interrupted, speaking right over him, but if I had to hear that fucking lie one more time I just didn’t know what I’d do. And the last thing I needed was to be reminded that I was so weak right now my commanding officer couldn’t even bring himself to discipline me for it. Maybe he actually thought he was doing me a kindness by putting it off.

_He couldn’t be more fucking wrong if he tried._

In any case, he stared at me so long I was starting to wonder whether I should prompt him for a response. Before I could figure out the right words though, he sighed and said, “Yes, of course. You don’t…” He trailed off and shook his head, apparently abandoning the rest of that sentence. “It was probably a bad idea to do this now anyway. But we’ll talk some other time, okay?”

A shudder ran through me before I could stop it, and I had to fight the urge to brush my fingers over my throat to reassure myself that there was nothing there. I adjusted my sling instead.

“Okay,” I said quietly.

I only just remembered to pick up my coffee as I made my escape.

* * * * *

The world wavered in and out of focus as I made my unsteady way to my room, navigating more or less by autopilot as darkness ate at the edges of my vision. My legs felt rubbery and weak, and I didn’t quite make it all the way there before they started to buckle. Fearing that I’d crumple to the ground if I took another step, I braced myself awkwardly against the wall, using my metal to stop my coffee from spilling everywhere as I focused on taking deep, even breaths until this latest bout of weakness passed.

_Fucking_ ** _coward_** _,_ I berated myself, my hands trembling uncontrollably despite my best efforts to make them stop. My body’s betrayal stung almost as badly as that caustic rush of self-loathing. _Stop it,_ I ordered uselessly. _You’re not that damaged. It’s just feelings._ And the exhaustion that seemed to have worked its way so deep into my bones I wasn’t sure it would ever have come out. _This is so fucking pointless. Having a stupid little breakdown isn’t going to solve this._ If anything, it would probably just make things worse. _Just pull yourself together._ My body might have been recalcitrant, but my metal moved with barely a thought, obeying my unspoken command. _Weakness is unacceptable._

“Astrid?”

The sound of my name managed what all my exhortations and imprecations had failed to achieve, and the next thing I knew I was in a defensive stance facing the interloper.

“Dean,” I said, and it was as if every last bit of the ice that had stopped me in my tracks had been packed into that one word. “What the fuck do you want?”

He recoiled a little, his eyes wide and startled.

“N— Nothing. I just, I mean.” He wrenched himself back under some semblance of control, both his expression and his voice blandly pleasant when he asked, “Are you okay?”

I meant to say ‘fine,’ but what came out instead was, “Fuck you.”

Not waiting for his response, I turned and stomped away. I even made it all the way to my room before breaking down again.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> These scenes weren't part of my initial plan for the next chapter. But Tamoline made some good suggestions that led to me significantly revising that plan. The scenes weren't actually part of the revised plan either, but I was having real trouble just getting started on writing the chapter. Since I had these scenes in my head, I thought I might as well get them onto the page and try to build up some writing momentum. It seemed to work. I briefly considered including these scenes in the chapter, but although it makes sense for the events to happen, I don't think the story needs another example of 'Astrid is afraid of an authority figure' and 'Astrid interacts poorly with a teammate' at this point, especially when there aren't any significant changes to the relationships involved.
> 
> Even aside from helping me to actually get started on the chapter itself, writing these scenes out was useful to me in terms of figuring out the characters' headspaces. It also prompted me to figure out what Mr Renick was going to do about trying to ensure the new Ward's successful integration into the team. Or, well, trying to stop things from getting even more out of hand. He's been a little distracted with catching up with his other duties after returning from sick leave, or he might have kept a closer eye on the Wards. Ms Grant certainly had a few choice things to say to him about how 'hands off' he's been following her conversation with Astrid. It isn't entirely fair of Astrid to blame her for the intervention, however. It would have happened sooner or later, regardless of anything Ms Grant did or said.


	22. The Principal's Principles

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Astrid is summoned to the school principal's office for a chat. (A deleted scene from 4.12)

It wasn’t until I’d closed the door behind me, crossed the room, and finally sat down that the adrenaline buzz finally started to subside. Electricity still crackled along my nerves and my pulse still thundered like a herd of wild horses, but my mind was finally clear enough for me to understand the full import of what I’d just done.

_I am so fucked._

Principal Martin regarded me steadily. I tried not to wilt under his scrutiny, locking my jaw against the tide of apologies and promises welling up in my throat as I perched uneasily on my chair. (I was honestly surprised he’d let me sit down at all. Maybe he was just taking pity on me because of the sling.)

“You know that Arcadia has a zero tolerance policy when it comes to violence,” he didn’t quite ask, his voice stern.

“Yes, Sir.”

There was blood on my hands. I couldn’t see it — my gaze was fixed firmly on the principal — but I could feel it drying on my skin. It wasn’t mine. None of it was mine; a thought that prompted a blaze of mingled triumph and shame.

The creak of leather startled me into flinching, my breath hissing through my teeth before I registered that he’d just been leaning back in his chair. _Idiot,_ I scolded myself. _Principal Martin isn’t going to discipline me._ Not like that, anyway. The thought didn’t help. I had to stop myself from twitching every time he moved. Although I knew it wasn’t reasonable of me, I couldn’t help but resent him for his choice of office furniture.

“What happened?”

_I lost control._ Of all the sins I could have committed, that was the gravest one of all. My breath threatened to grow ragged around the edges but I refused to let it. I wouldn’t allow my body to betray me like that.

“I lost my temper,” I said, unsure of my tone. Did I sound too blasé? Too unrepentant? Too bland? “I’m sorry, Sir. It won’t happen again.”

The office and everything in it had a kind of razor-edged clarity, making it seem almost hyper-real. For a brief, disorienting moment, I half-thought I might be dreaming, but the blood on my hands told me that I wasn’t.

The blood on my hands told me I was fucked.

“I should hope not.” He paused for a moment, his expression thoughtful. “Why did you lose your temper?”

This felt like a test. I took a moment to consider my answer, wondering what he wanted to hear.

“I can’t say, Sir.”

“Can’t, or won’t?”

“Can’t, Sir.” I couldn’t bring up those terrible accusations; I just couldn’t. I’d probably end up in more hot water for not being suitably ‘politically correct’, or whatever. If it was even possible for me to be in any more trouble than I already was.

“I see.” This time when he studied me, I could’ve almost sworn his expression softened slightly. It must have been a trick of the light. “Is there anything you can tell me? Anything at all?”

Maybe it wasn’t a test. Maybe it was just a trap.

“I have no excuses, Sir,” I said carefully.

“Astrid.” My own name sounded strange and alien to my ears. Maybe because I seemed to hear it a fuck of a lot these days. “I can’t help you if you don’t talk to me.”

Help me? Did he really think I was so naive?

“I don’t understand,” someone said. It sounded like my voice.

“What don’t you understand?”

_Some days it feels like I don’t understand anything at all._

“Why you’d even want to help me, Sir. I broke the rules. What difference does it make why I did it?”

Zero fucking tolerance. I sure as shit knew what that meant, even if he wasn’t allowed to take the sentiment to its logical conclusion. But the PRT didn’t have any such constraints, no matter how many people kept trying to tell me otherwise.

“I’m a teacher. Helping my students is part of the job. And it seems to me that the ones who break the rules are often those most in need of help.”

So he’d already branded me a fuck up of the highest order. Fucking awesome.

“I see.”

It sounded like new age, touchy-feely bullshit to me, but I had no intention of saying as much. Luckily, he seemed to take my response at face value, merely giving me another of those assessing looks I was coming to loathe.

“I realise that you’re having a difficult time at the moment,” he began, and my stomach lurched like the ground had dropped beneath me, panic driving me to commit another cardinal sin: interrupting him.

“I can catch up, Sir,” I assured him, the force of my desperation propelling me physically forward, almost all the way out of my seat. “I know my initial results are somewhat lacking, but I know I can do better. I will do better. You don’t have to—” My brain caught up with my mouth and I bit off the rest of the sentence, forcing myself to slow down, calm down, and show some fucking manners. “Please don’t put me back a year.”

Principal Martin’s eyebrows climbed almost to his receding hairline.

“I’m not going to put you back a year,” he said seriously, and then shocked me by smiling. “You haven’t even been here two weeks yet. It’s a bit early to make judgements about your academic future, don’t you think?” All I could do was stare at him, too choked up with confusion and relief to even think about saying anything in response. His smile faded again. “Did someone tell you we were going to hold you back?”

“I was just concerned, that’s all.”

He didn’t answer right away, perhaps waiting to see if I was going to add anything else. When I didn’t, he straightened in his chair — I managed not to flinch at the sound that time — and adopted a brisk tone.

“In any case, no matter what someone might have said, or how angry you are, violence is not an acceptable response. Do you understand?”

“Yes, Sir.” I was just glad he hadn’t asked me if I agreed.

“And when you return from your suspension, I expect you to apologise to the students you hurt.”

I held in a wince. “Yes, Sir.” Even the thought of it was humiliating. I just hoped he wouldn’t make me do it in public.

He regarded me for another eternity, and then sighed. “As I was saying before, I know things are difficult for you right now, and I understand how tempting it can be to lash out.” Some of my scepticism must have leaked into my expression, because a half-smile flickered over his face. “Believe it or not, I wasn’t always the mild-mannered school principal you see before you. But I digress.” His demeanour sobered again. “You have to keep your temper under control, Astrid. That’s even more important for you than for anyone else. Between your abilities and your training, you could seriously hurt someone without meaning to. I know it isn’t fair to hold you to a higher standard because of something you didn’t choose, but I’m afraid that’s the way it is.”

The air thickened around me, tightening around my throat. I forced myself to keep breathing; to hold Principal Martin’s gaze like I wasn’t caught in the throes of an unthinking, bone-deep panic.

“I know about the importance of control.” I sounded haunted and hoarse, like I’d just been jolted awake from a screaming nightmare. Except the nightmare was lurking ahead of me, and—

_Oh God, what have I done?_

Because I couldn’t imagine the PRT’s views on control were all that much different to Dad’s. And in combination with all my other fuck ups… Hellfire and damnation. This was going to be bad. It was going to be really fucking bad.

“I’m… sorry,” Principal Martin said hesitantly, giving me a distinctly uneasy look. “I didn’t mean to distress you.”

“I’m not distressed,” I lied flatly, wishing that the ground would open up and swallow me. And then hastily ordering my power to stand down, lest it actually do so. My metal had stayed put. That was something, at least.

“Are you sure there’s nothing you want to tell me?”

I waited a beat before answering, but only to give the appearance that I was actually considering the question. In the end, there was really only one answer I could give.

“Nothing, Sir.”

And in my head, four words repeated themselves over and over like a mantra, or a litany.

_I am so fucked._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yet another deleted scene from this chapter. Clearly, this is the reason why it was so short. There is technically one more, but I've just moved it to the next chapter because Tamoline and frustratedFreeboota convinced me that Astrid's control shattering was a better ending point for this one.
> 
> This scene... I like it, but it's essentially redundant. The beats it hits have either been covered before, or will be covered in the scene that got moved into the next chapter. It shows a little bit of Principal Martin's character, but that isn't worth the redundancy and the additional words. I like to think the fact that I'm starting to recognise things like this before other people point them out is a sign that I'm making progress as a writer.


End file.
